


some space underneath my skin

by hellsreluctantheir



Series: touch [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 06, Soulless!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsreluctantheir/pseuds/hellsreluctantheir
Summary: Humans liked to touch each other in ways that baffled Castiel. Not just in the manner they slyly referred to as biblically. He watched them clap hands onto shoulders and backs, lean into each other in exhaustion, sleep sitting up with feet resting against each other on the floor. A constant, reverberating, nonverbal hymn.I am here. You are here. We are here, and we are alive.Angels did not need that kind of reassurance. Castiel could hear his siblings' songs no matter how near he was to them physically. Prayers and psalms in the back of his mind.It saddened him, somewhat, to think that humanity would never know that.--Sam rode Lucifer into the pit; Castiel pulled him out. Or, the Cas and Sam spent the year between seasons five and six sporadically hooking up fic.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Series: touch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163927
Comments: 49
Kudos: 81





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Canon said, 'Cas pulled Sam out of the pit and then didn't talk to him for a year' and I said, 'No.' This was supposed to be the hot girl summer fic. anyway listen to [Touch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bk2sWpHUFXE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened in Detroit did not, apparently, stay in Detroit.

It was not the first time Castiel had clasped Sam Winchester's hand.

The first time - not long past, considering. Castiel, fresh in his vessel and crawling with grace. Familiar with Dean, but the first time they'd let his younger brother see them. Uriel standing solid by the window. As far as he was concerned, it was enough trouble talking to the brother who was human. The demonspawn should be acknowledged only if they deigned to squish it. Sam Winchester had not looked like demonspawn. Just human, awed, and imperfect, and holding out a hand in greeting.

The awe on Sam's face had flickered, dimming, before Castiel took pity, and took his hand. It had fallen further once he'd spoken.

Castiel’s grace was burning hot. He couldn’t feel the press of Sam’s hand any more than he’d felt the demon blade Dean had thrust into his heart. He did, at least, know enough to appreciate the more polite greeting.

As these things went, it had seemed inconsequential.

Humans liked to touch each other in ways that baffled Castiel. Not just in the manner they slyly referred to as biblically. He watched them clap hands onto shoulders and backs, lean into each other in exhaustion, sleep sitting up with feet resting against each other on the floor. A constant, reverberating, nonverbal hymn. _I am here. You are here. We are here, and we are alive_. Angels did not need that kind of reassurance. Castiel could hear his siblings' songs no matter how near he was to them physically. Prayers and psalms in the back of his mind.

It saddened him, somewhat, to think that humanity would never know that.

He did not expect that he would learn how that lack felt.

His grace flickered like candle flame. The withdrawal of heaven when he disobeyed. Glowing stronger when he turned in Anna. Burning out in a flash beside the prophet, Chuck Shirley. No point trying to conserve warmth when you're fighting an archangel; he would have been snuffed to nothing no matter what choices he made.

Hands shaped him to be whole again. He returned, he rebelled.

The lower his grace burnt the more he could feel them. He wondered if he was supposed to look at them and see his family, his brothers, the inevitable end. He did not; he looked at them and saw ants who were terrified, and defiant, and all the more beautiful for it. The Winchesters were not able to comprehend the scope of the battle in front of them. Castiel was. And yet, his grace burnt low, and he found himself more easily distracted.

When he first took Sam Winchester's hand, skin to grace-bound skin, he'd felt nothing. Without that power a hand on his arm burnt through layers of fabric. Humanity descended upon him inch by inch, the songs his family sung draining away, replaced by that thrumming, mortal verse, pressed into him by fingers digging into a bicep, a palm flat on the plane of his shoulder.

_I am here. You are here. We are here, and we are alive._

He was not present when Sam Winchester said yes.

He arrived in time to see his brother in his friend's skin, the bottle clutched in his own hand as pathetic an offence as anything they had to offer.

Lucifer did not need to touch him to destroy him; the Morningstar willed him dead and it was so.

This time he returned and Sam was gone.

Grace ran hot through him, hotter than it ever had; he brushed his fingertips over Dean Winchester's face and healed him.

Dean left, Bobby Singer left, and Castiel stood in the field over the closed mouth of the cage. Promises and plans had been made. Cracking the door was too dangerous. Every one of them had known going in that their plan had a narrow enough chance of success without risking it being reversed. No way to get Sam out without risking the devil climbing out with him.

Castiel had watched the Winchester brothers make and break promise after promise to each other for all the time he had known them.

Castiel was was thrumming with more power than he’d ever held, a blaze, a forest fire, the confused songs of his siblings echoing in the back of his mind.

Castiel stood in the field, on the roof of the cage, and he burnt hot.

_I am here._

When he’d healed Dean he’d expected to not feel it. Not with this grace. But humans were not beautiful, defiant ants, they were just beautiful and defiant. Castiel had touched Dean’s face and he’d still felt it.

_You are here._

The sun set and rose.

Castiel cracked the door of the cage.

It was a mess inside. Lightning, and fire, and above all grace. Two of God’s first children, and two of his favourites. Adam quailed in fear, Michael cried out in anger, Lucifer dug his claws into Sam Winchester as deep as they could go.

Sam reached up and out.

_We are here and we are alive._

It was not the first time Castiel had clasped Sam Winchester’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](https://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com/).


	2. Summer to Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Civil War is declared in Heaven. Deals are made in Hell. On Earth, Sam hunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I want to write something short and fun and sexy about the year between seasons five and six.  
> Also me: So how do angels FEEL about physical contact anyway.

Heaven was buzzing, but Castiel did not immediately return. There was a need, there were explanations to be made, a new world order to discover. Instead, he stayed on earth. Laid the healed body of Sam Winchester in the field where he’d died, watched him breathe. Watched him wake, slowly. It was nearing dusk, thin May sunshine slipping down below the horizon. Sam inspected himself, like he was making sure he’d come back in one piece.

Castiel thought about revealing himself. But even as sure as he’d been, he’d still broken a promise. Better to leave time for adjustment.

And Sam - he watched Sam steal a car and drive

He had expected to be able to read Sam better, after all this time. The expression on his face as he stared through the window - at Dean, Lisa, and Ben - was nothing he could recognise. Maybe he’d gotten used to the big emotions, before Detroit. The misery, the fear, the acceptance right at the end. Maybe the pit had made a difference. Maybe being Lucifer had made a difference. Maybe whatever Sam was feeling right at that moment was just quieter.

It was another surprise when he turned and left without knocking on the door. Without speaking to Dean at all.

Turned the car towards Sioux Falls.

Sam Winchester broke into Bobby Singer's house with the certainty of someone who knew no one was inside - he was wrong, of course. Castiel stood between them in the silence after the resulting scuffle where the pair recognised each other.

"You were dead," Sam said. Flat, and quiet, and sure.

Bobby replied, "So were you."

Silver, salt, holy water. A tang of iron and gunpowder hanging in the air. Six negative tests, three apiece, and then Bobby was holding Sam to him with voice and hands equally rough and shaking. Castiel almost revealed himself. He did not.

“Was it Dean?” Bobby asked, the question handed over with a bottle of beer.

“I don’t think so,” Sam said. “Unless he raised the dead and then went back to to Lisa without waiting to see if it worked.”

“Hm,” Bobby grunted, collapsing into his armchair. “Cas, maybe?”

Sam frowned. "Cas is alive? A lot of it's fuzzy but I'm pretty sure I remember him exploding."

"You jumped in the pit, and he came back. Said it was God's will. He's the one who brought me back."

Castiel watched Sam lean back into the couch, thumb running up and along the neck of his beer bottle. “As good a chance as any, right? You heard from him?”

“Not since we left Detroit,” Bobby shrugged. “I guess we could call.”

“Right.” Sam’s head tipped back, eyes to the ceiling, throat bared. “Hey, Cas. Looks like I’m out of the cage, just wondering if it was you that tripped the lock?” He paused, glancing to see where Castiel would land. He didn’t need to land; he was already there. “Would be great to hear from you.”

A yawning pause filled the conversation and the centre of Castiel’s chest. The longer it lasted the less natural of a moment it would be to step in. Prayer, like a hand tugging at the hem of his coat. Prayer that went unanswered. Sam and Bobby’s conversation meandered away from what brought him back and towards what he was going to do. The songs from Heaven were still calling Castiel home, only getting stronger, but he waited until Sam walked up the creaking stairs to his bedroom. The time he’d spent in the cage had been so short there was no dust-crusted grief to fill the spaces in Bobby’s house that had belonged to him. It was like he’d never been gone.

Satisfaction with his work overtaking the discomfort of doubt, Castiel spread his wings and flew home.

Chaos, the likes of which heaven had never seen. Every garrison in disarray, scrambling to make sense of orders given for an apocalypse that had never happened. Raising his voice above the din, Castiel sang, feeling all his siblings stop to listen to the sound of his verse. The rebel. The one who loved humanity so much he fell for them. Destroyed by an archangel and then brought back. Destroyed again, by Lucifer, and then _brought back_.

 _We are here and we are alive_ , his song said, and they did not understand. He sang of a world unburdened by fate, of living free of orders with no source, without the ghost of their father. Joy threaded though every note; joy, and relief, and excitement. There was no mirror for his joy in his siblings’ songs. Just more confusion, and fear, deaf to his reassurances. They feared the unknown, the forest with no path. They feared him too, he realised. The angel who rebelled and was rewarded. Who rebelled and won. Fear and fascination was all he could’ve expected to find.

Still, it was exhausting.

Rachel came to him after he was finished singing. Approached carefully, like she no longer knew him. It had been such a short time that he had been fallen, it seemed strange for her to be so wary. But as instants went it had been eventful. That probably explained it. For a moment he wondered if the garrison had drawn straws to see who would come to him, but it only took a moment more to remember that would have been something mortals would have done. Not his fellow soldiers.

Rachel stood. Out of arms reach, of course. No reason to move closer. But she also didn’t seem to know what to say.

“I brought tidings of joy,” Castiel said.

There was a moment before she answered. “We weren’t made to find joy in broken plans.”

She was right. It was difficult to imagine the armies of heaven, clinging so hard to their orders fo so long, to rejoice at the news that there was no more gospel to follow. Still, he wished he could show them. He wished he could take her hands in his and make her understand.

"God brought you back," she said. "Our father left us without a leader, but he refused to let you remain broken. That means something."

"I didn't return to lead," Castiel told her. "I returned to tell everyone we no longer need to follow."

Rachel watched him, expression unreadable, still too far away for him to touch. “You gave us the choice,” she said. “What if we choose to?”

He did not have an answer.

Castiel didn’t think that Sam Winchester even realised how often he prayed, leading up to the end. Not to God - not anymore. To him. When they needed to talk, of course. In desperate moments, obviously. But Sam _prayed_ in a way his older brother didn’t. With a weight of habit, of faith, of bone-deep need. Heaven had failed the Winchesters, so that need had fallen to Castiel. Not all prayers were answered - they weren’t meant to be - but he had heard every word. Even the ones he did not think Sam meant to pray. After Detroit - after Lucifer - that stopped. The prayer as he sat on Bobby’s couch, and then nothing.

“Hey, Cas.”

That, more than any other reason, was why he came when Sam called.

It had been weeks since he’d manifested physically - May melted into June into July. Sam called from Nevada, where the sun beat uncompromisingly over the desert. Into the motel room where he sat at a table, arranging pieces of a gun for cleaning. The heat had driven him into an undershirt, sweat gathering at his back and his underarms. Castiel no longer felt the temperature, not like when he’d been human, but the sight drove the memory into him somehow.

It took a moment for Sam to glance up and notice he was there.

“Cas.”

A full sentence in a syllable. Surprise, a greeting, an undercurrent Castiel couldn’t quite touch.

“Sam. You called,” he said.

“Kinda thought you wouldn’t answer. After Bobby’s, when you didn’t show. He’s the one who reminded me to try again.” For words that sounded chastising, there was little heat behind them. Confusion, maybe.

“I apologise,” Castiel said. “I heard you. I was just unavailable at the time. Heaven has been… Chaotic."

There was more trouble brewing, he knew. He’d made no promises about leading the way the garrison wanted him to, but the pressure was growing. And not stepping up meant someone else could. He was… reluctant to take that kind of control, but the reluctance was tempered by fear of who else might.

"I figured it might be.” Sam rolled his shoulders idly, leaving the task of cleaning his gun aside for a moment. The second bed in the motel room was covered in paper, and his laptop sitting open. He was hunting - had to be. There was no sign of Dean. "Look, I was just wanting to check in - I thought jumping into the cage was gonna be it for me, but I got out pretty quick. Was that you staging a jailbreak?"

Castiel had lied to the Winchesters before. A false threat of holy fire and a test of resolve. A turn of the screw, setting Sam free and on the path to the final seal. Lies at the behest of heaven, of the greater good. Lies that, if he had felt like self-deception, he could have blamed on higher powers than himself. If he lied to Sam now there was no higher power compelling him to do so. He'd admit to saving Sam from hell, yes, but also to breaking a promise, to risking everything. The kind of lapse that could shatter the tentative bonds of trust. Castiel wanted Sam to still trust him.

And Sam had stopped praying.

"No," he said, "I was surprised when I realised you'd been released."

"Hm." A faint crease of a frown between Sam's eyebrows made itself known.

"Are you concerned?" Castiel asked.

"Well, y'know," the frown disappeared into a smile, but one that didn't quite reach the eyes. "Before the apocalypse I kept coming back from the dead because your bosses wanted me to be the devil. If someone's still got strings on me, I want to know who. And why.”

No strings, Castiel wanted to say, nothing owed for this miracle. It was payment for services already rendered, it was a moot point, it was a deep certainty that he could not leave Sam at the mercy of his brothers for the rest of time, that Sam had saved the world and deserved more than the torment he’d face in the cage. But he had already made the choice to lie.

“Understandable,” he said. “Regardless of who or what brought you back, it’s good to see you alive.”

"Thanks, Cas." Sam's smile widened, but didn't seem to become any more genuine. Castiel wondered if the spectre of a puppeteer behind him was going to loom that heavily.

"You're not hunting with Dean?" he asked, instead.

"I checked in with him," Sam said. "But he's got Lisa and Ben. I'm sure he would help if I asked. I just don't need the help at the moment. No point pulling him away from a chance at a normal life if I don't need to."

He shrugged. Castiel moved towards the covered bed, peering at the pages scattered across the surface. He wondered if by checking in Sam was talking about when he’d watching from the window without knocking on the door. It didn’t seem right that Dean would leave his brother hunting alone.

"You didn't take the chance yourself?"

Sam laughed. "Nah, maybe one day. Not now."

He was different, Castiel could feel that. Maybe he hadn't acted quickly enough. 

"What do you remember from the cage?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam said, with no trace of guile. "I remember jumping in, and then next thing waking up in that field. Probably a blessing, right?"

Castiel thought about the glimpse he'd gotten of the cage. The anger crackling off his brothers, the fear and the fury. "Most likely." He hesitated. "I... am sorry I don't have any more information for you about what pulled you out."

Sam stood, moving over to stand next to Castiel, and clasped him warmly by the shoulder. "Hey, not your fault if you don't know, right? Thanks for checking in."

The press of his hand was warm, thumb caught on Castiel's collarbone, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. The last time he'd touched someone was Dean - wiping him free of the beating the devil had inflicted. He'd thought, maybe, it had been a fluke. That song, that hymn. The aftershocks of being mortal echoing even after he had been reformed. Sam's hand on his shoulder proved that it was not a fluke. The brand of his palm burnt through; his body wanted to shiver. Sam’s eyes felt piercing.

"I should be getting back," he said, "But if I do hear anything about who brought you out, I'll be in touch."

Sam released him and turned to gather pages from the covered bed. "Course. Thanks, Cas. And- if you ever need a break from all the bullshit upstairs you should drop in."

Castiel spread his wings and flew.

Castiel should have expected it. Probably the only reason he got advance warning was the fact that Raphael was smart enough to draw lines first. Just attacking the seraph God brought back would risk alienating too many potential soldiers. When the factions of Heaven had fallen into disarray, when so many were scared of how things now had to change. As it was, even with the little notice he'd been given, he was running. Scrambling defences, allies. Any reluctance he'd had to assume command had fallen to the wayside of sheer need. And acceptance - even if the ideological divide had been a moot point, Raphael would probably still want to kill him.

The ideology just meant he could convince more people to help him try.

Thus far Free Will was not helping Castiel's cause.

Skirmish after skirmish. Castiel had been a soldier for millenia, but a civil war of heaven was different. They were losing soldiers. Raphael's forces were not unscathed, but they were faring better. More soldiers, the certainty of tradition on their side. Raphael was an archangel, and Castiel...

Castiel did not know what he was anymore.

More powerful than he used to be. It was unclear what that meant in the greater scheme of things, especially when the greater scheme was what he was trying to destroy. And he was tired. In ways he used to think it wasn't possible for him to be. Before he'd fallen, before he'd learned. It wasn't his vessel this time, obviously, wasn’t the mortal, physical version that had filled him before the apocalypse. But it saturated through him just the same. He had thought the fighting would be over. Now he doubted he would ever see the day it ended.

His soldiers, his siblings, they sang as they always did. It no longer sounded so full. It no longer felt so comforting.

He missed being on earth. It felt like it would be selfish to go. There was so much work to be done. Still.

The edge of resolve was just one more to be pushed over. An ambush. Raphael's forces doing their best to make it a massacre. It didn't appear they knew Castiel himself would be there - they just knew his commanders would. Lucky, or Raphael himself probably would have made an appearance. There was not much of a hint of how they found out - who could have told them. After everything he should not still be surprised by angels spying on each other, but it rankled every time. Felt wrong every time. Castiel was alive, technically unharmed, but he still felt wounded.

It had probably not a been a genuine offer on Sam’s part, to drop in. Still. He searched. Dean was still with Lisa. Bobby was home - and talking on the phone to Sam who was in the Truth or Consequences Motel No 6 in Arizona.

He found Sam; clearly at the end of a hunt, cleaning a series of long, shallow cuts wrapping his forearm from inner corner of his elbow to the protruding bone of his wrist. Focused, too focused to notice Castiel landing a few feet away. Not even flinching from the antiseptic.

"I can heal that."

That made Sam jump, wounded arm flying to the gun still sitting on the table before he realised who it was. "Warn a guy, Cas," he said, placing the gun back down and instead shooting out a grin. “Not that I’ll say no.”

Castiel obligingly, reached out to touch Sam's forehead, wiping the cuts from existence as if they'd never been. Sam let out a slow breath as the pain left him, shoulders relaxing as he leaned back into his chair. Castiel’s fingers lingered, longer than he normally would have let them. Sam's eyes met his. Carefully, gently, he dropped his hand.

“What was that from?”

Sam's gaze seemed to grow hotter, but all he said was, “Werewolf. I drove out to chase one and found three.”

“By yourself?” Castiel asked, concerned despite the fact that he’d felt Sam had no further wounds.

Sam gestured to the motel room with empty hands. “You see anyone else around? Bobby’s working on something back at the yard. What about you, just needed a break from upstairs?"

"Yes," Castiel said, a beat too late. "The fight with Raphael has been... exhausting."

Sam jerked his chin towards the other chair. “Sit, if you’re tired. Take a load off.” 

Sitting would not help Castiel feel less drained, but he expected Sam knew that. He sat anyway. Watched Sam clean up the first aid kit he had set out on the table, get up to stow it in his bag, toss the swabs he’d been using into the trash. Then he sat back down, drawing his chair in a little closer to Castiel as he did so. Their knees nearly touched. Sam was watching him, gaze steady.

"So, Raphael hasn't gotten any nicer, I'm guessing."

"In the millennia I have known him, he has never once been nice," Castiel said. "I don't see why he would've changed in the past few months."

Sam laughed. "Hey, you did." He shifted in his chair as he spoke, leaning back a little and kicking one leg out. The change in position made their legs knock together, crossed at the calf. Body heat bled though Sam's jeans and Castiel's slacks, into his skin.

He did not need to breathe but he inhaled anyway, looking down at where they were touching.

When he looked up Sam's head was cocked. The smile playing around his lips was smaller. The way he stared felt like a brand.

"I appear to be something of a mystery to the garrisons of heaven," he said.

“Never would have guessed. So,” Sam leaned froward as he spoke, one finger tapped lightly against Castiel’s knuckles, “Were you wanting to talk as a distraction or were you wanting something else?”

Castiel cocked his head, feeling the contact reverberate. The question was not oblique; he understood the implication. But, anyone who’d spent significant time around hunters would know that sometimes the chase was as much of the joy as the conquest. “Something else?” He shifted closer too, letting Sam’s finger slide up the back of his hand and past the cuff of his shirt. “What would you suggest?”

Moving slowly - stepping softly to keep the deer from spooking - Sam took Castiel’s hand in both of his, and started to work his thumbs into the palm, into the muscle at the base of Castiel’s thumb. Unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt, started to work up his forearm. “I’m never sure what you angels can do,” he said, instead of answering. “I mean, the meat suit is human, right? But you don’t eat, you don’t sleep.”

“We can,” Castiel said. “We can do anything humans can, we just don’t need to.”

“Like the burgers,” Sam said. “You could always eat them but you only felt the urge to when Famine was around.” He shifted to Castiel’s other hand.

“Exactly.” Castiel flexed his free hand, feeling the aftershocks of the pressure.

“But without Famine around,” Sam was watching his hands work, thumbs digging into Castiel’s forearm. “You ever feel the urge?” His eyes flicked up, to meet Castiel’s eyes, then down, to his mouth.

There was heat rising in Castiel to meet and match the heat in that gaze. “Why don’t you show me what you mean?”

Sam smiled, slowly leaned in. The smile tasted as good as it looked.

They didn’t linger, after. Castiel dressed, and Sam opened up his laptop to browse obituaries. One hunt completed, and already on another.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, before he left. “For the distraction.”

Sam’s eye’s flicked up at him over the laptop screen. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Glad I could help. If you need more distracting in the future…”

“I’ll find you.”

Castiel would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the invitation.

Much less gratifying was the invitation from Crowley. But after all the risk and work of caging the devil he knew, he'd left himself with the businessman he did not. Besides, after everything leading up to the apocalypse that wasn't, the idea of heaven and hell working together was no longer untrod ground. And the souls.

The _souls_.

The power he'd felt in that field in Detroit was nothing in comparison. For the first time since it had started the war did not feel hopeless. Castiel descended on the front lines in a whirl of grace, sent Raphael's forces scattering, and then spirited himself back to hell with Samuel Campbell trapped in a cage of his fingers. He stayed out of the mortal's view while Crowley laid out the terms of the deal. The demon was the businessman, after all.

Not that the deal was complicated. Purgatory for his daughter.

Samuel Campbell did not hesitate before accepting the terms. “If these alphas are as big and bad as you say they are, I’m going to need back up,” he said.

Crowley shrugged. “You’ve got family still in on the game.” His eyes met Castiel’s over Samuel’s head. “Maybe even more than you’d think.”

The Campbell’s were a tight-knit group, and they’d tracked them down in Vermont where they were digging out a nest of vampires. Samuel was dropped off nearby. He wouldn’t need help finding them. Castiel and Crowley stood, after he left, on a rooftop in the silence of a step that could not be untaken.

“I still think you’re coddling your pets,” Crowley said. “They might be idiots but they’re the kind of backup I want on our team.”

“I’d prefer not to involve either of them in this,” Castiel said, thinking of thumbs rubbing circles into the skin of his forearm.

“Right, right” Crowley said. “You think you’re slumming.”

“Just focus on your end of the deal,” Castiel said. “Find Purgatory.”

Crowley smiled with a mouth full of malice, and vanished.

Castiel flew - it should have been to Heaven. To the front lines, to his soldiers. The angels that had put their faith in him, and his words. Who believed with him that free will would leave them better off than they had been. That no apocalypse was needed. Instead he made his rounds. Dean, cooking breakfast and talking to Ben. Bobby, snoring sitting in his armchair with a book open on his chest. Sam, working a case. He did not visit, this time. Just watched Sam flashing an FBI badge to get into a murder scene. No need for Castiel to interrupt, or distract. And it would have been selfish of him to take distraction then, too. The deal had been made, the chips would fall, and Castiel still knew at least part of what he was.

He was a solider. He would fight.

They all had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](https://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com/).


	3. Winter to Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It snows in New York, things grow in Indiana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you don't realise a moment is romantic until you're looking at it in retrospect, and not having a soul makes that harder.

They’d beat back Raphael’s forces three times since Castiel had made the deal.

The war was going better. Not well. But better.

The victories they’d claimed gave them space and time to regroup. To plan. Time to take stock. Needed, yes, but not especially pleasant. It took weeks of work but they had a good idea of Raphael’s forces. They had a good idea of their weapons. It was the angels and weapons that they knew Raphael didn’t have - and knew that they didn’t have - that were causing issues. A string of mysteries still in play. Mysteries that could turn the tide. With the battles becoming more even, both his own forces and Raphael’s turned to searching out advantages.

Time slipped by. Castiel did not go to Earth. He fought in Heaven, he directed his forces. He visited Hell for status updates, finding Crowley no closer to finding Purgatory, and yet more self-satisfied with every visit.

It was December.

Sam was far to the North in New York, Castiel tracked him down breaking into an icy mausoleum, mumbling to himself about how cold it was, and how damp his socks were, at least he didn't have to dig into frozen ground to exhume the body. The steady string of complaints carried him through finding the right tomb, cracking the gate, spreading salt and kerosene and taking a few tries to flick the lighter with numb fingers.

Castiel watched him warm his hands on the burning bones like it was a campfire.

"Sam," he said in greeting.

Sam started, gun almost jumping into his hand his reflexes were that fast, despite the cold. "Cas. Fuck, where’d you come from?”

“Heaven,” Castiel said.

“Right.” Sam’s breath was still running fast, but the gun had slid back in it’s holster and he was starting to relax. “Makes sense.”

“I had a free moment, so I thought I’d check in,” Castiel offered, though the idea of free moments in heaven seemed slightly absurd. There was always something to be done, Castiel just found himself time and time again stepping away. It seemed like a human thing to say though, something that would sound right to Sam’s ears.

Sam arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Check in on what?”

“You,” Castiel said. “Since it looks like you’re still hunting by yourself.”

“Oh, this?” Sam gestured vaguely towards the fire. “This was nothing. One measly ghost, no trouble at all. I’ll call in backup if I need it, but I'm definitely not running into anything worth heavenly intervention.”

“That’s good,” Castiel said.

“So you weren’t checking in for other reasons?” Sam asked, the smile back in full force, dimples and everything. “Distracting reasons?”

Castiel glanced around the frozen mausoleum. “Here?”

“No,” Sam laughed. "I think we can find a nicer place to, ah, _talk_ than a graveyard in midwinter."

Castiel shrugged. “I don't feel the cold."

"Well I do,” Sam shook his head, stamped his feet, and started to walk towards the door. “And if you hadn’t shown up I’d be in the car with the heating on already. C’mon - you can ride with me if you want, or you can meet me back at the motel."

It had been long enough since Cas had ridden in a car that it was a novelty again, although he’d never get used to how slow they moved. Still, sitting in the passenger seat while Sam crammed himself into the drivers side was somehow still comforting. Watching him fiddle with the keys and the buttons on the dashboard until the vents started to spew out air. Still cold. But he turned the windscreen wipers off to clear the slush that had built up on the car windows. It was odd, sitting with him in a car that wasn't the impala. But the silence was comfortable, so Castiel let it lie as they waited for the windows to clear of fog, and pulled out into the road.

It was a short drive, at least.

Inside the motel room were two beds: one covered in books, paper and, as Sam stripped out of his outer layers, clothes, the other perfectly made and un-rumpled. He stretched, arching his back until it popped with a grunt of satisfaction, then turned to Castiel.

"You never answered me about if you were here for distracting reasons."

And if Castiel had been honest, he hadn't really been thinking about that, but he reached out anyway.

This time, after, Sam popped his back again and then started arranging the mess on the second bed, closing books and piling papers, tugging his bags over to start packing.

Quiet reigned until Castiel was buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "What are you planning next?"

Sam made a noncommittal noise, still cramming books into his pack. "Heard some stories that sounds like shifters in Wisconsin. A few of ‘em, maybe. Always hard to tell."

"Are you going to call for help?" Castiel asked.

Sam’s cheek curved with a smile. "If I need it. I'll figure out what's actually happening first."

Castiel would imagine that fighting a shifter was complicated enough when there was only one of them, but he deferred to Sam's experience, instead stretching out his senses to hear what his armies were singing.

"I should go," he said, after a moment. 'Thank you, Sam."

Sam glanced up, distracted, like he'd already forgotten Castiel was there. "No problem, Cas."

Rachel and her battalion tracked down rumours of stones from the Tower of Babel scattered across Texas and part of Mexico. It led to nothing. Raphael led a punishing salvo against pieces of Castiel's army; they retaliated. The fighting had not begun to leak down to Earth, not yet, but it would. It was only a matter of time, and then even more deaths would rest on Castiel's conscience. It was enough to wonder if he was on the right path, if he should have capitulated the first time Raphael asked. Most likely he would still have been hunted down, but the collateral would have been smaller.

Though, the path he was on did not, at this stage, have much room to turn around.

“-mpbells are chasing shifters in Wisconsin-"

"What?" Castiel broke into Crowley's stream of consciousness before he could quite conceptualise why. That while shifters weren't entirely unusual, there probably weren't enough making themselves known in one state to bring around two groups of hunters. At least, not without them running into each other.

He did not want Sam anywhere near this.

"Lovely, how you listen when I talk," Crowley groused. "Shapeshifters, I'm sure you're familiar with the concept. Maybe you've heard of the state of Wisconsin. There's enough reports that there has to be something unusual going on, and if there's something unusual going on I want to know what it is. I've got our hunters going to bring me back some toys."

Castiel's mouth formed a grim line. While he never forgot, he didn't appreciate the reminder of the parts of their plan that involved torture.

Crowley, who probably knew why his expression had changed, grinned insincerely at him.

Unwilling to let Crowley know where Sam was likely to be, Castiel moved on. "Have any of your... toys... known anything about the location of Purgatory yet?"

"Not yet," Crowley said. "Not thinking you want to balk on our deal, are you?"

"I'm thinking you make a lot of promises, but so far you haven't had any results," Castiel said. "We surprised Raphael into a retreat, but he'll realise he still has the larger army soon enough."

"Don't get testy, darling," Crowley said. "As soon as my hunters start bringing me more monsters, I'll go about getting us our answers. Anyway, back to what I was telling you-"

Castiel did his best to hold himself back from looking like he was running, when Crowley had finally had his fill of rambling and he could leave. No need for Crowley to know where he was going, or how desperate he was to get there. No real plan, not really, but he had to be able to stop it. What was the point of all this power if he could not? But as fast as he could fly, he only managed to touch down right as Sam Winchester came face to face with Samuel Campbell in the sewers underneath Waukesha.

Whenever hunters met it was with a display of posturing that was slightly baffling to Castiel. The intimacy of sharing a secret mixed with an instinctive dislike of vulnerability. No one who made their living off killing wanted to show their underbelly, admit they needed help. In this particular instance it was complicated by recognition.

“You were dead,” Sam said, grip shifting on the handle of a silver knife.

Samuel frowned; his family behind him all shifted their weight. “You know me?”

“I know you died in 1973,” Sam said.

“Something brought me back,” Samuel said. “Don’t know who.”

“Really,” Sam said, tension clear in the lines of his shoulders. “Me too. When?”

“First, how do you know me?”

Sam glanced around at the rest of the hunters. Castiel wondered if he was honestly considering fighting. “I’m one of Mary’s sons,” he said, finally.

One by one, the Campbell’s expressions changed. Castiel kept watching until he was sure that they weren’t going to come to blows.

Still.

He dropped in to Sam’s motel room a few days later, arriving to a hissed exhale as Sam pulled suture thread through a long cut on his ribs. It only seemed to polite to wait until he was done with the stitches before surprising him. So he waiting, watching the flex of Sam's ribs against his skin as he breathed. He grimaced when the needle pierced his skin, but his hands stayed steady. Eventually he cut the thread, started taping gauze over the wound.

"Sam."

"We need to figure out some kind of warning system," Sam said, once he'd stopped brandishing the scalpel from his first aid kit at Castiel.

"Was it the shifters?" Castiel asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "You can stop bugging me about calling in back up, though, I ran into some hunters on the job."

"Who?" Castiel asked, knowing the answer.

"Some of my mom's family," Sam said, packing away his first aid kit. "Including - get this - her dad." He gave Castiel a significant look. "Who we both know Azazel killed. Turns out he got brought back from the dead not too long after me."

"You think it's related?" Castiel asked.

"I think it's pretty safe to assume that me and my grandfather popping out of our graves at around the same time is related, yeah." Sam rolled his shoulders, grimacing. Castiel wondered if it was from the wound at his side or something deeper.

"Does Samuel know who resurrected him?” He did not imagine Samuel would be foolish enough to tell people about the deal with Crowley, but he had been wrong about human foolishness before.

"No," Sam said, a frustrated edge to his voice. "He doesn't have a clue either." The first aid kit was packed, Sam stood to drop it back into his bag, and then stayed there, facing away. "I'm guessing you haven't heard anything about him getting sprung either?"

"I told you I'd let you know if I heard anything relevant," Castiel said, which was the truth even if he hadn't fulfilled the promise.

“Right,” Sam said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

He stood taller now, Castiel thought, as a silence stretched between them. The cage could have changed him, though he’d said he had no memories of it. Or it could have been Lucifer; the possession itself, or coming into the strength to wrestle the Morningstar down and make the jump into the pit. Whatever had changed there was a confidence, a decisiveness, settled into the shoulders of the man in front of him that had been absent before the apocalypse. Standing in a mouldy motel room, gauze taped to his ribs, and bruises blooming on his arms and neck, it shone through. As much as the change may have fuelled the flirting since he’d been raised from hell, it was somehow more obvious with Sam distracted.

Sam cracked his neck, idly, before turned back towards Castiel. “Sorry, I’m a little preoccupied.” The words were said with a smile, small, polite, and insincere.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Castiel said. He moved forward, reached out, fingertips barely brushed the skin of Sam’s arm, before the slam of the next room’s door and footsteps moving towards them had them both turning towards the door.

“Sam?” Samuel Campbell’s voice called out.

Sam turned towards Castiel, a question beginning to form on his lips, and Castiel nodded. “I’ll go.”

Sam’s mouth quirked, a shade of energy returning to him as he said, “Come back?” before turning to open the door.

“Sounded like you had somebody in here.” Samuel unloaded an armful of files onto the table.

“It’s called a cellphone, grandpa,” Sam said, letting his dangle from his fingers.

“You know, that joke doesn’t work so well when it’s true,” Samuel said, tugging maps into place so they were arranged better. “Thought I’d show you some plans, if you’re serious about helping out.”

“Always up for a hunt,” Sam said, tugging a shirt over his bruises and bandages, and going to look over the maps with his grandfather.

They talked, about the shifters they’d fought, about where the Campbells were heading next, about Alphas. Sam did not seem overly surprised at the idea of bigger, badder monsters hiding in the shadows behind the ones he'd been fighting for years. If anything, he seemed anticipatory. Like the Devil hadn't been a big enough challenge, and maybe these original monsters would. But Sam did not ask how Samuel had learned about them. Or why he was looking for them. All his focus seemed to be on the maps, and the files, going through police records, and old newspaper clippings, triangulating in his head what next steps would be.

Samuel, eventually, begged off, yawning as he went. "It seems like you're on a roll, but I need to sleep. We can talk more in the morning."

Castiel knew, even before stepping back into Sam's view, that their conversation was over. He was engrossed in some fear-mongering death cult article, that had real things to fear in it only if you read between the lines.

"This sound ominous, as far as hunts go," Castiel said. "Will you call in Dean?"

"No," Sam answered, without glancing up. “You sound like Bobby.”

"He could help. And Samuel is his grandfather too." And Castiel would feel less guilty about Sam hunting alphas if he had Dean watching his back.

"He's got Lisa and Ben," Sam said, making notes on one of the maps. "He got out, and if he finds out about this he'll leave that behind. I'm not gonna do that."

Castiel nodded, though Sam was not looking at him, and stepped in far enough that he could press his palm to the centre of Sam's back, feeling his warmth bleed through the cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart. “I need to get back,” he said.

Sam did not respond.

The libraries of Heaven were vast, and they remained - at least mostly - neutral ground. Archives were not the best places to make a battlefield, especially ones full of items as sensitive as Heaven held. Castiel’s forces had done plenty of spiriting away of tomes and artefacts they considered useful; he was sure Raphael’s armies had done the same. But there were still plenty of things to find, and as long as you were careful the chances of a blade in your back were not excessive. Especially compared with the rest of the Heavens.

Castiel was still careful.

Because it was simple. The deal with Crowley was conditional on Crowley finding purgatory. With torture, and blood, and the hunts that Sam Winchester and the Campbells were embarking on. Castiel did not need tortue, or blood, or hunters. Castiel had records more ancient than anyone on Earth could hope to find.

Some texts pointed to doors to the lands of the dead in caves at Delphi. That spirits whispered through from beyond there, if you stood in the right places to hear them. Castiel went and found rocks, and plants, and methane, and nothing else. There were records of monsters spilling from cracks in the ground in Tanzania, of them leaking through the archways stone henge. And that was just the clues he could find for a gate on Earth.

He peppered his travels with visits to motel rooms across the United States of America.

Rachel, still his closest lieutenant, seemed deeply unsure of how he was spending his time, and he struggled to explain himself. Telling anyone - anyone at all - about the search for Purgatory was a risk. Raphael getting there first would be a disaster. The archangel may not have Crowley helping, but it was not like Crowley had been especially helpful so far. The more of Heaven’s libraries he made his way through, the more dead ends he discovered, the more fruitless it seemed. The less he could explain to his friends and fellow soldiers why he was spending so much time and energy reading old stories, and travelling around Earth.

And he could tell himself it was to win the war, but far more often he thought about Sam. He’d risked so much to bring him back, and he did not want to see his life cut short by a hunt. The feeling was made worse when Sam, on one of Castiel’s visits, started asking for anything Castiel knew about the original monsters.

Frosts broke, new growth started to push its way through the cold, wet ground, the days started to get longer, and warmer. Castiel grew ever more frustrated. He was apparently not the only one.

Sam was pacing in a motel room in Indiana when Castiel landed; as soon as he saw him he froze.

“Information or distraction?” he asked.

“Distraction,” Castiel answered.

“Good,” Sam said, and pushed him into the wall.

That spark of energy in Sam that seemed to be burnt up when they had sex this time did not extinguish. Before he could get up and start pacing again, Castiel pushed him over onto his stomach and pressed his hands into the muscles of his back, smiling despite himself at Sam's groan. It was simpler, this close. This was not existential. This was not something that needed to be interrogated, or explained, or challenged. He could simply dig his thumbs into Sam's spine, press into his shoulders, feel him arch into it.

Of course, it was simple.

Love was the reason Castiel had turned from heaven, the reason he'd fallen, of course it was also the reason he dove into the deepest pit in Hell to liberate just one person.

God had told the host of Heaven to love all his creations, for better or for worse.

Castiel had looked at the world, and said, yes, Father, I love them, but I have chosen to love especially these few.

This one, in particular.

Overwhelmed, in a way he was not used to feeling, he leaned down to press his lips between Sam's shoulder blades.

Sam made an interested noise, turning his head to glance up at him. Eyes bright and alert, not drowsy like Castiel expected. "Feels good," he said, voice hoarse. "But I gotta tell you, I don't know if I have another round in me that fast."

It wasn't about the sex, but Castiel didn't say anything. He just turned Sam around and kissed him. And kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him until he could not ignore the songs of war drawing him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com).


	4. Seasonal Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets back in the game. Castiel makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love is a giant pair of rose coloured glasses.

Indiana.

The proximity did not strike Castiel as strange until after he left. That Sam had been on edge, unable to relax, and only a few towns over from where Dean was living. The temptation to go back was strong. But there was work to be done, so he tried to focus his mind on that. The war. The hunt for purgatory, though that was still mostly stalled. All the books in Heaven, and no more information than Crowley was cutting out of his monsters. But he could not leave his soldiers, not when he had so often. Distracted, by Earth, by Crowley, by-

"Hey, Cas?"

He landed in another motel room in Indiana, this one even closer to Cicero.

"Sam."

Sam did not seem agitated, like he had the last time he'd seen him. He'd spoken softly, appeared to just have finished cleaning his guns and was wiping oil off his hands with a rag.

"I wanted to talk to you about Dean," he said, without glancing up.

"Are you considering bringing him in?" Castiel asked.

Sam grimaced. "Kinda didn't get a choice. We tracked down a couple of Djinn that were after him. He got dosed, and I couldn't exactly slip him the antidote without letting him see me." He tossed the rag onto the table. "You were right, anyway, he's good to have at your back."

"What did you want to talk about, then?” Castiel asked.

Sam faced him. "I don't think he should know we've been in touch," he said. "He was... a little cagey about the way I’ve been hunting without him.”

Castiel cocked his head. "If you lie now, it will make it worse if he does find out."

"Which is why he won't find out," Sam said, lightly, "Come on, he doesn't need to know everything about my life. So as far as he's concerned, we haven't spoken."

Castiel considered. What was one more lie to add to the list. "If you think it's best."

"I do," Sam smiled. It did not feel especially friendly. 

“Where’s Dean now?” he asked.

“Back home, I assume,” Sam said, already turning back to the pile of files and the open laptop on the table. “The poison was pretty nasty, I think he wanted to get back to Lisa and the kid.”

“So, he isn’t hunting with you?”

“Not right at this second. He misses it though, it’s pretty obvious.” He had already checked out of the conversation - his fingers were flying on the laptop keyboard, and he didn’t look up.

Distracted, off-put, Castiel glanced over at the two motel beds. The same as they always were when he dropped in, one neatly made, and one covered in the detritus of a life on the road. “Do you want to continue as we have been? If you are travelling with Dean again…” He trailed off a little and Sam laughed.

“If - when - Dean comes back, I don’t see any issues cropping up.” He did glance up at that, demeanour warming. “Think I’m getting a little old to be sharing rooms with my big brother at every motel, he can whine at me about the money all he wants.”

“I wondered,” Castiel said. “Since you still have been using double rooms all this time.”

Sam frowned a little, glancing at the beds, then shrugged. “Habit, I guess. Besides; I like having the space.” His gaze turned back to Castiel, burnt a little hotter. “When I called, were you hoping we’d continue?”

“You usually call when you need to talk,” Castiel said. “I wouldn’t say no, but you seem busy.”

Sam turned back to the laptop with a sigh. “Samuel’s got a lot of knowledge, but he’s not great with the technology. I’ve been picking his brain and trying to trace where our alphas might be. But I might still have some time.”

Castiel shifted closer, behind Sam’s chair, bracing his hands on either side of him on the table. “Oh?” he said, following up with a press of his lips to the nape of Sam’s neck.

Sam chuckled, tilting his head forward. “Yeah, if you think you’re that convincing.”

Castiel followed up the kiss with a scrape of teeth. He felt, more than heard, Sam let out a pleased hum. “I can be convincing.”

And, as it turned out, Sam didn’t take much.

Crowley, on the contrary.

“I thought you wanted the Winchesters on the job,” Castiel said, unable to disguise his frustration.

“I did,” Crowley said, “And when you refused, I _adapted_. For the sake of your precious heart.” His fingers tapped a sharp pattern on the surface of his desk. “We brought in Samuel Campbell, back from the dead. A fitting replacement, all that experience. But Campbells in, Winchesters out, because don’t you think running into their dead grandfather _might make them a mite suspicious_.” His voice peaked at a yell, the tapping fingers closing into a fist.

“Sam has been working with the Campbells for months,” Castiel said. “He’s been helping them hunt, not poking around your operation.”

“Well, maybe the moose’s brains got a little scrambled in hell,” Crowley snarled, “and he’s not quite on his game. Even so, now we have his idiot big brother in the mix too. I wanted them in when we could have controlled them, _this_ is not what I wanted.”

“Well, if he’s an idiot you won’t have to worry about anything,” Castiel ground out.

“Idiots stumble into greatness all the time, have you ever met a member of congress?” Crowley, at least, stopped yelling, unclenching his fist to resume the tapping of his fingers. “They’re your pets, kitten. I’d like you to keep them in hand.”

“They won’t come after you,” Castiel said, “Especially if you find Purgatory without giving them time to.”

“Will you stop harping on about that!” Crowley’s scowl was vicious. “I’m keeping up my end of the bargain. We knew it would take time, we knew we’d need to work our ways up the food chain.” His fist was clenched again. “Stop _bitching_ if you’re not going to contribute.”

“Did you have any actual updates for me, or did you just call me in to yell?” Castiel asked.

“I called you in to tell you to keep the wonder twins out of my business,” Crowley said. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to need to take matters into my own hands. If you’ve got that through the concrete wall you call a skull, you can feel free to go.”

Castiel stood. “If you’re going to make threats, make threats. Don’t talk around them like they’re a deal you’re planning to swindle.”

He left. Rachel had heard rumours of someone trying to sell the spear of destiny, and though it did seem like it was most likely a fake it was still worth checking. They weren’t sure where the real thing was, even if they were reasonably confident that it wasn’t in South Dakota. But he made his rounds again. Watched Bobby stir a giant pot of caustic-smelling chilli and discuss the finer points of hunting will o’ wisps with someone on the other end of a phone. Watched Dean carry a bundle of cardboard boxes into Lisa’s house, and then pause on a return trip to the garage to call Sam.

“Just checking in. And reminding you that you’re crazy for not wanting to take Baby out.”

“Can’t get into that much trouble in a day and a half, Dean,” Sam’s voice came crackling over the line. “And it’s ok, I appreciate the offer but I don’t want you wondering if she’s cheating on you.”

Dean scoffed, “With you? My girl’s got better taste than that.”

“Not if she’s with you, she doesn’t,” Sam said. “But, seriously, what’s up?”

Dean seemed to struggle for a moment. “Look, I- I just wanted to check if there were any hard feelings about me not coming out with you. It’s just. I got the kid now, and it sounds like you’ve got plenty of backup running around with mom’s side of the family, so-“

“Yeah, of course. No hard feelings at all,” the answer cut him off. Castiel flew, landing in the backseat of Sam’s car to see him smiling easily, phone pressed to hie ear. “I told you what I thought, and you didn’t agree. It’s fine; we’re adults. If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Alright, I better start packing. Bye, Sammy.”

“Bye.”

Sam hung up the phone, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Castiel watched that easy smile slide off his face like water.

The war changed tactics. There were still skirmishes, testing the front lines. The nature of war was to make complex disagreements into violent, schoolyard brawls, and Castiel hated it. But as it went on longer and longer, Raphael seemed to focus less and less on the battlefields where their soldiers met, and more and more on trying to track down Castiel himself. The proverbial head of the fish. The logic couldn’t be faulted - Castiel was aware that most of his soldiers were not following him because they believed in the ideal of free will and a world without fate, but because they believed he himself was part of a greater plan put into motion by the father.

In darker moments, Castiel wondered if it was true.

If the entire apocalypse, the death and destruction for Heaven and Earth alike, this civil war, if it was all just some test by a father who had stepping away from loving his children. It certainly made finding the souls in purgatory a more pressing matter.

In a quiet moment, in a heaven of blue skies and rippling grass, Rachel found him. News of changes in the positions of their armies, of the tactics of their enemies and the responses their troops have been making. Scarce rumours of where Raphael might be and what he might be planning.

And, after that, “You’ve been spending much time on Earth.”

Castiel hesitated. “There is much to be done. And we know there are weapons of Heaven lost there.”

“How much time are you spending looking for weapons of Heaven?” she asked, calmly.

The words stuck in his throat. He had never used to feel so unsure. “They are not all I am looking for,” he said, speaking slow, choosing his words carefully. “There are things that could give us an advantage, a significant one.”

“Your soldiers would trust you more if they knew what you were doing.”

“There’s too much risk. If Raphael knew what I was hunting-“ He broke off, shaking his head. “We cannot risk him finding it first. It would spell doom for me as surely as me finding it spells doom for him.” He looked to Rachel, meeting her gaze, direct and sure. “I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you, Castiel,” she said. “I trust that our Father brought you back to us for a reason. I am asking you to offer those of us that follow you the same trust in return.”

“I do,” Castiel said, moving closer despite himself, trying to impress on her the truth. “I don’t take any of this lightly. All of those who follow me- I know what my responsibilities to them are.”

“And your responsibilities to the Winchesters,” she said, softly. “What of those?”

A pause. Too long, by far. Eventually, Castiel took a breath. “My responsibilities to the Winchesters?”

“They’re important to you,” she said, and there was a well meaning warmth there. “I understand that. We all do. You fought by their side, you stopped the apocalypse. But they’re not at war anymore, and you are. We need you.”

“I understand,” Castiel said. “I am sorry. There are things I can’t explain right now.” He was losing her trust. The trust of his armies. He knew it. “I will-“

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here.” Dean Winchester’s voice broke in, raised in prayer. Or, at least, what counted as prayer to Dean.

He sighed, trying to ignore the prayer’s insistent pull at the back of his mind. “I will keep fighting-“

“Cas! Don't be a dick. We got ourselves a... plague-like situation down here, and... do you...do you copy?”

He sighed a second time. “I have to go.” He did not wait long enough to see Rachel’s reaction.

It was more of a relief than he expected, to see both Winchesters in the same room again. Like when things had been less complicated, even if they had been more dire. There was something to be said for the nostalgia for old fights, once you’d been past the ending. That warm feeling of fondness lasted about until Sam’s offended, “Hello?”

He’d accepted Sam’s request that they not tell Dean they’d been in touch.

He could’ve done without the scolding.

Of course there were more pressing matters. A fragment of the Staff of Moses, reaching his hand into a child’s soul to find out someone he considered a friend had been callous enough to purchase it. Someone he’d mourned. Judgement, from Dean, and a conspicuous lack of judgement, from Sam. Balthazar, in the flesh. Raphael, vessel crumbling to salt. Castiel did not need to count days, not anymore, but it had been a long one. He did not fly far, though. He followed the Winchesters to a motel where Dean, looking exhausted, waved off into a room without complaint.

And Sam, much more alert that his brother, went into a second.

He turned as soon as he heard Castiel’s wings. “Kinda thought you’d flown home.”

Castiel tilted his head, fixing him in place with his gaze. Tried to figure out what topic to broach first.

Sam grimaced a little, nodding. “Did I come on a little strong with the whole unanswered prayers thing?”

“A little?” Castiel asked.

“I didn’t expect him to call you so soon, ok?” Sam said. “And I didn’t expect you to come the first time he did, it took me a couple tries to get ahold of you.”

“The first time you called you weren’t calling about the Staff of Moses,” Castiel said. “You could say it was a little less urgent.”

That made Sam laugh. “I get it. But we’re committed now. Anyway, you found out who stole the weapons, got a piece of one of them, and Raphael’s had a hefty setback.” He shrugged. “Seems like a pretty productive day.”

“I’m still concerned about Balthazar. What else he has hidden, what he’s planning on doing with it.” Though, Balthazar’s ambitions had been strikingly low. It may have rankled, may have ruffled Castiel’s wings, that the one angel who seemed to understand the free will he was fighting for was choosing to use it the way he was. “I don’t want to hunt him down.” The mutual debt had been cleared. It still did not feel right sending forces to hunt for him, even if Raphael would surely be doing the same thing.

“Then don’t.” Sam seemed unconcerned, turning to tug his laptop out of his bag and carry it to the table. “Seems like he has more than enough firepower to keep himself well defended. Unless you’re planning on dragging him back upstairs?”

“I don’t think so,” Castiel said. “I’m not fighting this war to punish people. Though buying souls is… concerning.” 

“Yeah, I guess you want to check into that.” Sam sat, already tapping at the keyboard of his laptop. Pulling up headlines and obituaries. “Seems more like Crowley’s thing, y’know?”

The mention of Crowley’s name made Castiel grimace, just a little, but Sam wasn’t looking. He moved closer, reading over Sam’s shoulder. “Are you even going to sleep before finding something else to hunt?”

“I’m not tired,” Sam said. “Might as well do some work while I’m up. Unless you can think of something else we can do instead?” His tone was arch, but he did not look up.

“I should go,” Castiel said. He did not leave yet, though, instead running a hand through Sam’s hair, settling it on the back of his neck. Feeling the pressure as Sam leant into it. As he tipped his head back, gaze finally making it’s way back to Castiel’s face.

“Should you now?” he drawled, low enough that Castiel felt it vibrate through the back of his neck.

“Yes,” said Castiel, but he stayed. Let his hand soften, move from the back of Sam’s neck to the side. A long day, and it had left him feeling ragged, and raw. And maybe he was still unhappy with Sam but, for at least a moment, he was not looking for acknowledgement, or apologies. He was looking to be soothed, and as Sam turned his chair towards him, and pulled Castiel into his lap, he thought, ‘this works.’ He brought their lips together as Sam’s hands skimmed up underneath his shirt and thought, ‘For now, this will do.’

The news of Balthazar and the stolen weapons flew on Heavenly wings. Far, and wide, and thorough. A ripple of shock, followed by awe, followed by a mixture of disgust and curiosity. Another example of what free will could mean. What Castiel had died for. Been resurrected for. In those darker moments, in a voice that sounded a lot like Dean Winchester, he thought that there weren’t many angels in the garrison with the guts to make similar breaks for freedom. But he know, as well, that there was plenty of room for smaller rebellion. And, as much as it might be inconvenient, Castiel couldn’t fault that.

Castiel was fighting for that.

Still, he spent a far more significant period of his time than he had been walking amongst his troops. Talking to them, reiterating the reasons they were fighting. Rachel had been right to question him. Some of his soldiers barely seemed to know who he was, who they were following. There was only so much he could fix. But it meant he stayed. He led his forces. He fought his war.

“Castiel? Hello? Possible loose nuke down here, angelic weapon. Kinda your department. You hear that, Cas?”

It did not take long to confirm the Horn of Gabriel was not in Calumet City, nor, Castiel was fairly certain, anywhere in the state of Illinois. Any real excuse to stay on Earth was gone in seconds. Still, there were lines in Dean’s face that begged Castiel to stay, something in the way his hands gripped the whiskey, a tremor in the surface tension so small that he doubted Dean even noticed. That Dean was worried about his brother - _for_ his brother.

“About your brother. I... I don't know what's wrong with him, but I do want to help. I'll make inquiries.”

“Takes you that long to notice?” Dean said, bitter humour filling every word. “I mean I know you’ve only seen him once since he popped out, but.” He shook his head.

“He’s changed that much?” Castiel asked. He’d noticed Sam had changed, of course he’d noticed. 

“That’s an understatement. You really think Sam - Sam, of all of us - would’ve been ok with you sticking your hand into that kid?”

“We needed to know,” Castiel said. “The pain was regrettable, but-“

“I’m not arguing that, Cas,” Dean interrupted. “But we both know I shouldn’t have been the voice of moderation in there.”

He was right. In a way that caused a pit at the bottom of Castiel’s stomach. “Lucifer is in the cage, but Sam still carried him. That could - would - have left scars.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. Took a swig from his glass. Put it back on the table. “Don’t I wish it was just scars.”

It was, somehow, not a surprise, when another prayer came only a few days later.

“Times up, Cas, I don’t care if you’ve found anything. Get your ass down here.”

So he did. To a motel room where Sam was beaten bloody and tied to a chair. Unconscious, but beginning to surface. And his brother, arms folded as he leant against a set of drawers. The lines of worry in Dean’s face were gone, replaced by tightly focused fury. And, buried far beneath it, fear. 

“Dean,” he started, but was almost immediately cut off.

“This isn’t a talk me down situation, Cas.” His face was stony, voice sure. “We’re not having a discussion. Look at him, figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“He looks terrible,” Cas said, turning towards Sam, watching his eyes flicker and blink open. Start to focus, despite the contusions that on his forehead and temple, the blood crusted under his nose. “You did this?”

Dean did answer, but Sam managed to speak. “Cas?” He grimaced when Cas touched his face, tilting it back to get a better look at how his eyes were responding to light. “Let me go.”

“Has he been feverish?” he asked Dean, running down the list of the research he had been able to complete in his head.

“Have you?” Dean barked out. Cas dropped his hand.

“No, why?” Sam sounded slightly incredulous. He was testing the ropes keeping him tied.

“Is he speaking in tongues - are you speaking in tongues?” Sam wasn’t a prophet, that he’d know, but the brushes with the divine could have had some kind of effect. Getting too close to anything that powerful was dangerous, and Sam had Lucifer inside him.

“No,” Sam said, tone only growing more disbelieving. “What are- are you diagnosing me?”

There was something wrong. That pit at the bottom of Castiel’s stomach yawned, deep and dark. Dean was talking, voice sharp, and Sam was confused but apparently not concerned. Castiel reached out to his neck, two fingers pressing in to feel the steady, unhurried rhythm of Sam’s pulse. No panic, no fear, no worry. Tied to a chair, still bleeding sluggishly, but completely calm. The list of possibilities for the change was getting shorter and shorter. He thought about every visit to a motel room he’d made over the year. Always two beds, one covered in research, and weaponry, and the other untouched until they fell into it. The pit widened with an uncomfortable lurch. “How much do you sleep?”

Sam took a second before answering, eyes flickering down. “I don’t.”

Dean had something to say about that, too. There was a back and forth. Castiel ran through the full list in his head. Twice. Three times. Trying to find some other possibility. Because, of all things, it couldn’t be this. Not hell, or Lucifer, but his own hands delicately shaping disaster out of clay. Dean, through his anger, was the first to notice the look on Castiel’s face.

“What?” he asked, the fear breaking through the fury for a moment.

“Sam,” Castiel said, instead of answering. “What are you feeling now?”

Sam scoffed, almost rolling his eyes. “I feel like my nose is broken.”

“No,” Castiel said, voice steadier than he felt. “That’s a physical sensation, how do you feel?”

“I think-“

“Feel.”

Sam stopped, frustrated, but considered. And after a moment, “I… don’t know.”

Castiel turned to Dean for a moment, but couldn’t say anything. They needed confirmation. He needed to be sure. Carefully, he drew his belt through his pant loops, watched apprehension grow in both brothers eyes.

“This will be unpleasant. Bite down on this.” Sam did, at least, without needing more convincing. “If there’s some place that you find soothing, you should go there. In your mind.”

With Dean’s anger burning into his back, and Sam’s confusion in front of him, Castiel reached into Sam’s chest.

Sam cried out around the belt, teeth clenching hard enough to leave marks in the leather, and Castiel reached further. And further, and further, out into nothing. Into the drop in the bottom of your stomach when you take a step and the ground wasn’t where you thought it was. Into freefall. Tendrils of grace spiralling out to brush against a human soul but nothing was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com).


	5. Soulless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley keeps everyone on a leash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't step back you can't get any perspective.

The street outside the motel was barren. Pools of yellow from the streetlights dotted the pavement. Inside, Sam was talking to Samuel Campbell on the phone about plans for the next hunt. About how he and Dean had just wrapped one up with nothing else on the docket, so they were available if the Campbells wanted some extra hands. He sounded casual and unconcerned. Probably was casual and unconcerned. Probably, he didn’t have the capacity for any emotion more vivid in him. Castiel stood on the sidewalk outside. While Dean was nearby, leaning against the hood of the impala, Castiel felt hyper-focused on the Winchester who was still indoors.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Cas,” Dean said, pulling him away from Sam. “At least we know what’s going on now, but working with this guy…”

“Philosophical questions aside, he is still your brother,” Castiel said. Dean made a disbelieving noise. “I doubt, in his current condition, you’ll have much luck keeping him anywhere he doesn’t want to be.”

“His current condition?” Dean asked. There was an edge of desperation there - it matched one that Castiel was hiding. “What am I working with here? I need details, I need a plan. This is fixable, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, certain. Before honesty got the better of him. “I hope so. I-“

“You _hope_ so?” Dean’s indignation propelled him off the impala and towards Cas.

“The first step is getting his soul back,” Castiel said, keeping his face impassive. “I’m sure you can appreciate it’s not a simple task.”

“Sure it is,” Dean said. Still aggressive, still bearing down on Cas. “We figure out whatever popped his body out and make them go back for the rest.”

Inside the motel room, Sam said, “Hey, even if you don’t need the help, do you mind if we drop by? We’re trying to find a lead on that whole back from the dead situation.”

It made Castiel want to come clean - if he thought he could without Dean trying to kill him. Not that he’d be able to, but the thought of what he’d do to himself to try was worrying.

“You are with us on this, right, Cas?” Dean said. Desperate, and angry, and focussed.

“Of course,” Castiel said.

The motel room door opened, the light from inside casting Sam in shadow. “Doors are open at the Campbells if we want to head there now,” he said. “And Samuel does want our help with a hunt after, if we’re available.”

Dean nodded, face grim. “No time like the present. Grab your shit, we’ll get going.” He was still looking at Sam like he was a stranger in his brother’s skin, like he was wondering if he peeled enough of it back that would be how he could find something familiar again.

It did not make the impala seem like a welcoming space. “I’ll meet you there,” Castiel said, readying his wings.

“Sure,” Dean said, shoving past Sam in the doorway so he could double check the motel room for anything left behind. “You better fucking show when we call, Cas.”

He did, of course. There was no way to avoid it without raising suspicion. He felt guilty, testing Samuel Campbell’s soul when that was one he knew was firmly in place. Pulling Samuel from heaven hadn’t been like pulling Sam from the cage - there was no physical form to hold. Only soul, and he remembered the feeling of it beating against his palm as he’d ferried it out. It was not pleasant, putting a man through the pain required to physically touch his soul, when he did not need to. But he braced himself against Samuel’s screams, brushed against his soul, lightly. No lurch of discomfort, no sensation of trying to step on thin air. Just humanity.

And that was enough for him to make his goodbyes and retreat.

But not to heaven. To a field where, a little over a year ago, he’d cracked the lid of the Devil’s cage.

There nothing really specific to that field. All of hell was - somewhat - metaphysical in nature. But the door had been opened here, and the ground remembered. Not as well as it had the previous Spring - it had been fresh then. Just closed, the imprint of the horseman’s rings still pressed into the earth. But there were still echoes. It made it a little easier to reach beyond, feel along the seam of the lid. He’d need to descend further into hell, closer to the cage to try and open it again. And, he was unfortunately aware, hell was not in nearly as much disarray as it had been for his first descent into the pit.

Centuries of preparing for an apocalypse that then didn’t happen would leave anywhere in chaos.

Even just testing the lid was disheartening - Cas could feel aftershocks, hot, then cold, then hotter, then colder. The glimpses of what he’d seen on his brief trip - Michael and Lucifer’s grace arcing and rebounding, the way Sam and Adam had trembled. He remembered the way Lucifer’s claws had dug into Sam as he’d pulled him out.

“I need to know if there’s a way into the cage.” The demon who acted as Crowley’s secretary had not wanted to let him in without a meeting scheduled, but they also had no way of stopping him.

From the look on Crowley’s face that was not going to stop said secretary from being punished. “I’m sorry. You want to get into the cage? I assume you mean the one currently holding your two angriest older siblings?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. Castiel did not move, did not drop his gaze. Just waited, while Crowley considered. “Why?”

There was another pause while Castiel considered how much he wanted Crowley to know. “Sam Winchester.”

“Is currently topside,” Crowley said. “So, what? Did he forget his wallet and send you to be his errand boy?”

“His soul,” Castiel ground out, “Its missing. I believe its still in the cage.”

He watched that news settle in, watched Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Sam Winchester’s running around without his soul.” His voice was more considering that Castiel would have liked. “And you - the big hero who’s going to get it back?”

There wasn’t anything heroic about cleaning up your own mess.

“Of course,” Crowley said, as if he’d spoken aloud. “Interesting angle. But Lucifer’s Cage isn’t a place anyone can just wander on into. It’s high security, lifetime sentence, no possibility of parole. Sorry.”

Castiel’s lips thin. “And yet, everything but the soul is already out.”

“And that’s not my problem,” Crowley answered. “What is my problem is you barging into my office when I’m trying to get actual work done.”

“If you don’t let me in the cage,” Castiel said, “I will find my own way in.”

Crowley leaned forward onto his desk, stepping his fingers, and smiled. “Feel free to try.”

And Castiel would.

It would need to be less like his second foray into Hell, and more like the first. Careful planning and descent - not now that he knew the rewards his impulsiveness had reaped. Probably fewer heavenly resources than the first trip, unfortunately. He did not expect his armies would understand why he’d open the cage door the first time, let alone the second. But there was still the archives, maybe he could find something he didn’t already know. In the spaces in between fighting a war. There was still his troops to see to.

“Hey, Cas.”

Sam’s voice.

Not Sam, not all of him.

“Any chance you have a moment to chat?”

There was a difference in tone from what he remembered before the Cage. That Castiel had been attributing to… What? Had he just been ignoring it? It was eating into him. That he’d been so close, and hadn’t noticed. He didn’t want to answer Sam’s prayers until he could bring his soul with him. Until he could fix it. Until-

“Cas, if you don’t get here, I swear to god- We know who got Sam out of the cage. Fucking Crowley.”

Dean’s voice cracked out like a whip - the inclusion of Crowley’s name sounded almost like an after thought. Castiel landed before the prayer ended, but he could not bring himself to step where he could be seen. Crowley. _Crowley_. More to add to the churning dread in his stomach. With Dean’s expression becoming poisonous when he did not see Castiel appear.

“Told you,” Sam said, from where he was sat on top of a bedroll and sleeping bag, legs stretched out in front of him. No motel room, for some reason, just squatting. “He’s busy.”

“Busy, my ass,” Dean said, apparently giving up on waiting and crouching to search through his pack. “We need a game plan, and heaven’d be helpful if Crowley really is the fucking king of hell.”

“Gotta tell you, I didn’t see that one coming,” Sam said, tugging his laptop free of his bag and opening it.

Dean paused his digging to glance over. “I don’t get why you can be so calm about this,” he said. “I mean… I know but.” He shook his head, going back to his search. “We need a plan.”

“Sure,” Sam said, in a tone that Castiel was fairly sure meant he was only partially paying attention. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll look for a hunt in the meantime.”

“A hunt?” Dean pulled himself free from his bag, toothbrush and toothpaste clasped in one hand. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam frowned, eye flicking briefly to Dean. “What do you want to do? Ask very nicely for my soul back and hope Crowley agrees? We don’t have any leverage.”

“Then we find some,” Dean said. “Excuse me if I don’t want to be Crowley’s bitch.”

“You think I do?” Sam scoffed. “Like I said; we’ll figure something out. But right now, we have nothing, and he wants monsters. It’s not like it’s far off the path for us. We’d be hunting anyway, we just give him what we find for now. Until we figure out another option.”

“Ok, but we both know he’s not gonna give you your soul back for monsters, right?” Dean said, standing and moving towards the door. “Crowley likes making deals, I don’t trust him to have the terms and conditions all in order.”

“Yeah, I get it Dean,” Sam said, focus back on whatever he was typing. “But we’re not gonna fix it right now.”

Castiel took flight - Crowley did not seem overly surprised to receive another surprise visit.

“If you keep dropping in like this, people will start to think we’re up to something sordid,” he drawled, without looking up from his paperwork.

“You told the Winchesters it was you who brought Sam back,” Castiel said.

“And Samuel,” Crowley said.

“You said you could get Sam’s soul back.”

“I did,” Crowley said, giving Castiel a brief, scathing glance. “Of course I did. If the Winchester’s are going to be working for me, I want them to be properly motivated. It’s good to have goals, kitten.”

“Can you give Sam his soul back?” Castiel asked.

“It’s in hell, isn’t it?” His eyes were still on his work - as he spoke he crossed something out and made a note beside it. “And I’m the king of hell, aren’t I?”

“I won’t let you hold Sam hostage-“

“What will you do about it?” Crowley said, leaning back from his work and meeting his gaze. “Thought you’d enjoy the extra time, anyway. I’m going to give you some friendly advice, since we’re partners, you’re not very good at thinking things through.”

Castiel frowned, fighting down part of him that wanted to smite Crowley then and there. “What are you talking about?”

“Think about where that soul is,” Crowley said. “Think about how long it’s been there. Now, I’m all for shoving it down the moose’s throat and watching his head pop like a balloon. Somehow I don’t think that’s the effect you’re going for.”

And that was it, wasn’t it. Castiel had been inside the cage, when he’d pulled Sam’s body out. He’d touched the lid, if obliquely, and felt the aftershocks of the power inside.

“Exactly,” Crowley continued, as if he’d spoken aloud. “Now, I told you that if you weren’t going to keep tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum in check, then I would, so I am. And, not only am I making good on that promise, I’m doing it in a way that keeps them from stumbling into your involvement. You should be thanking me.” He smiled, all teeth and pride. “You should be down on bended knee.”

Castiel was waist-deep in taking his frustrations out on Raphael’s forces when the prayer caught in the back of his mind.

"Castiel, we need you. It’s important. Cas, we found something. It’s this gold box. Apparently Nazis were after it back in the day, someone opened it and their face melted off. I think it’s – ready for this – the Ark of the Covenant. Yeah. So…"

And he should have known better. The voice, a little too sincere, too measured. The change had been more obvious since he’d discovered that Sam’s soul was missing - like he wasn’t trying so hard to fake it. Probably the secret being out was a weight off his shoulders. But the prayer, it had sounded a little like the old Sam, from before the cage. And Castiel should have realised, should have thought things through before he landed and was greeted by immediate scorn.

He did not think Sam Winchester would succeed to hunting him down, but he hated that he knew this version of him would try.

“You’re hunting Crowley,” he said, when Sam had brought him into the motel room where Dean was methodically cleaning and checking their weapons. “You’re working with another demon, and you’re hunting Crowley.”

“It’s not like we’re thrilled about the whole Meg thing,” Dean said. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You gonna do the spell or what?”

It was easy to fake, at least. Not even a drop in the pool of guilt that Castiel was saturated in. He didn’t want to send Dean and Sam running towards Crowley, not when he knew Crowley would not hesitate to kill them. It probably wasn’t even fully a lie - Crowley would most likely have himself well warded. Castiel just wasn’t going to risk him stepping outside the warding at an inopportune moment. It did not slow the Winchesters down nearly as much as he wanted it to.

“I’m going to call Samuel, try and figure out if he’s home before we go knocking,” Dean said, walking to pull the door open. “You two play nice.”

Sam had been watching him the entire time; Castiel could feel his gaze on the back of his neck.

“Are you going to threaten me some more?” he asked, guilt and anger coating his tongue with an unfamiliar, sour taste.

Sam scoffed, lightly. “Do I need to?”

Castiel turned to face him. He knew better than to expect any shame, any trepidation at all on Sam’s face. It still stung. “I think you know that going after Crowley like this is a stupid idea. You’re soulless, not suicidal.”

“We can handle Crowley,” Sam said, with a smile like there was nothing wrong. “With Meg’s help? With your help? We’re golden.”

“A remarkably blasé attitude for someone going up against the king of hell,” Castiel said. Snapped, maybe.

Sam’s head tilted, eyebrows raising. He moved closer. “So, why are you so pissed?” he asked. “I mean, I know how invested Dean is in getting my soul back, you kinda seemed like you liked the new guy.” He reached out as he spoke, fingertips brushing the corner of Castiel’s jaw, travelling down the side of his neck.

Castiel caught his hand, and pulled it away. “I didn’t know.” Sam let out an irritated huff, gaze fixed like Castiel was a knot that needed unravelling. “Do you want your soul back?”

It was a question that had been haunting him since his conversation with Crowley. That, while Crowley had been speaking in taunts, he had not been wrong.

“Of course,” Sam said. “I get whatevers missing back, Dean presumably stops yelling at me. Everyone wins.”

Castiel looked at the steadiness of Sam’s gaze. The words, ‘ _I will hunt you down and kill you_ ,’ reverberated in his skull.

He would need to convince Dean first. He didn’t get the chance to speak to him privately until they were about to leave. And then he was brushed off - Sam’s life in the balance and Dean reacted like he’d walked through a spiderweb. Barely even a halt in momentum - Castiel could not let them reach Crowley. Could not let them succeed in getting Sam’s soul back without a plan to heal it, could not risk Sam’s life for this. Certainty like a rock in his gut, mirrored in the clenched muscle of Dean’s jaw. And Sam’s eyes like a brand on the back of Castiel’s neck. The phantom sensation of fingertips still on the line of his jaw.

Meg flirted; the heat in Sam’s eyes flared. She kissed him, and her hand moved for the hilt of his blade, and he kissed back full of pent up frustration and-

He had wanted to touch Sam, back at the motel.

He couldn’t do that anymore.

He broke away and Dean was looking shocked and impressed, and Sam was looking like he wanted to take advantage of the fact that Meg had handed the knife back.

It didn’t matter, everything was still going according to plan, right up until Samuel Campbell slapped a bloody palm onto a glyph and sent him flying.

He managed to gather his scattered atoms and return to find Sam and Dean locked away, Meg strapped to a table, and Crowley waiting for him.

“So,” Crowley started, a single syllable loaded with barely contained fury, “I may have overestimated your intelligence if this is your understanding of keeping your attack dogs out of my way.”

“I could have,” Castiel said, lacking the patience for tact, “If I was _with_ them. You’re the one who told them you could get Sam’s soul out of the cage, and it was your inside made that blew me away.”

“Your plan was to infiltrate my fortress with them, to stop them reaching me?” he spat the question out like it was sour milk.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Obviously that plan won’t work anymore.”

“That plan barely had a change of working in the fist place,” Crowley said. “Now it’s just a matter of mitigating the consequences that you’ve dumped in my lap.” He pulled a bag out of no where, dumping in fromt of Castiel so he could see the bones kept inside. “So, kitten, if you want to keep our deal the way it is - unless you’ve changed your mind and you’ll let me kill them -“

“No,” Castiel growled.

“ _Fine_. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

It worked, at least. Both Sam and Dean alive, both believing Crowley was dead. Meg in the wind.

Sam caught him by the arm when Dean stalked off to try and find Samuel. He wasn’t still around - at least Castiel did not think that he was. But Dean thrived on action, and even if they’f gotten rid of Crowley, they’d reached a dead end on Sam’s soul. At least as far as Dean was concerned. Castiel was exhausted and frustrated for different reasons for very different reasons, and Sam seemed unaffected, watching him with dark, glittering eyes.

“I heard you talking to Dean,” he said, the softness of his voice offset by the lack of it in his expression.

“And you’d like to add your opinion?” Castiel asked.

“It’s my soul, isn’t it?” Sam’s eyebrows raised, mouth quirked. “I feel like that qualifies me for a vote or two.”

Castiel took a deep breath. “Of course. I’m sorry.” The tang of Sam’s blood was still in the air. He moved to take his hand, push at his sleeve and expose the ragged bite on his forearm. “Let me,” he started, softly, before trailing off. Holding his free hand over the wound and letting his grace brush out and knit the flesh back together.

“You seem frustrated,” Sam said. His hand was still clasped loosely in Castiel’s - slowly his thumb shifted, stroking lightly up and down Castiel’s. “We don’t need to talk about the soul thing. I know you need to get back to heaven, but we could work some of that energy off first.” He shifted closer, slightly and slowly. It reminded Castiel of that first time. The hunter, trying not to spook the prey.

He ached. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling. He wanted very badly to lean into it.

He broke away, pulling his hand from Sam’s as if the touch burned. “No- not while you’re like this.”

Sam’s head tilted. “But we don’t want me not like this, right? Because, best case scenario, it’ll kill me.”

“We’ll find a way, Sam-“ Castiel started.

“Will we?” Sam was calm, which might have been the worst part. Of course he was. “Because it sure seems like we just killed our one lead, and it turns out he couldn’t have helped anyway.”

“There will be something else,” Castiel said, firmly.

“And in the meantime?” Sam’s smile became a grin. A parody of the way it had looked before the cage. “You’re going to pretend like this never happened?”

“You wanted to,” Castiel said, “When you brought Dean back in.”

“It’s none of Dean’s business who I’m having sex with,” Sam said.

“It happened,” Castiel said. “But it won’t be happening again. If I had known your soul was missing it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

“So, just to make sure I have this straight,” Sam scoffed, “We can’t have sex, because you don’t like that I don’t have a soul. We can’t get my soul back, because it’s stuck in a box with the devil and it’ll kill me.”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“And you’re fine with all of that,” Sam said, slightly disbelieving, “You’re just that hung up on a version of me you weren’t even fucking.”

Castiel swallowed back bitterness. “We should find Dean.”

Sam snorted, but he didn’t push. They found Dean, who hadn’t tracked down any sign of Samuel. Left the building that stank of blood, and fear, and monsters. At least on the street was easier to breathe clear. The sun was even rising, pouring thin light down onto the pavement. Castiel did not follow Sam’s instruction to deal with the monsters inside. He was sure Crowley was already enacting a plan to get them moved, a new base for his search. Instead, he stayed and watched Sam confront Dean, watched him make a call about the search for his soul.

It was not a call Dean would respect, Castiel knew.

Still, it was almost nice to hear some passion in his voice again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com).


	6. Re-Souled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a deal, Castiel struggles with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A puzzle piece is put in place.

Crowley’s new base could have been in the same building as the last one. Same worn down exterior, same maze of corridors, same stink of pain. In an ideal would Castiel would not need to enter, but Crowley refused to meet anywhere but his office - whether it was the one on earth or the one in hell. Neither location was pleasant. Most likely Crowley was very aware of that. Most likely, that was why he insisted. Castiel already felt made of raw edges; this did not help.

“We’re going to need to keep things even quieter now,” Crowley shuffled through paperwork as he spoke, not looking up. “Your dogs have lost the scent, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You should be thinking less about the Winchesters and more about Purgatory,” Castiel said. “Stop telling me how close we are and get me there.”

“I’m getting there,” Crowley said. “Understand, I’m getting directions to a place these monsters have never been. It’s complicated, kitten. And you don’t have any chance of getting there without me.”

Whether it was the location of the office, or the way the new building was insulated, the acoustics had changed. A scream echoed down the corridor and into the air between them.

“When was the last time you got actionable information?” Castiel asked. “You have not been eager to share.”

“You always get so cagey when I talk about my sources, darling,” Crowley said, coolly.

Castiel had been trying to insulate himself from the darker happenings within the terms of their deal. He shouldn’t have been. “Well, you’re supposed to be dead, so demons poking around for Purgatory is going to look a little suspicious,” he said. “You give me the information, and I can hunt.”

“I thought you had a war to fight,” Crowley said, but he sounded pleased. It made Castiel want to withdraw the offer. “Seems like that has to keep you pretty busy.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he said, instead. Crowley wasn’t wrong, but without Purgatory the war was going to be a lost cause anyway. “Just keep me updated.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, with a smile. “We are partners after all.”

It felt like oil slick on his wings as he flew away. This deal, it needed to be worth it.

“Cas.” Dean’s prayer caught Castiel’s ear. “We need you. We got Sam’s soul back.”

He was there in a moment. Bobby Singer's house. No sign of Sam in the room. Just Dean, self-loathing and resolve battling for control of his face.

“What did you do?” he growled, sudden and strong enough that Dean flinched.

“I fixed him,” Dean said, Castiel’s disapproval pushing resolve into winning the fight. “You couldn’t.”

“If you fixed him,” Cas said, softer but no less menacing, “Why did you say you needed me?”

The self-loathing rallied. “He hasn’t woken up yet.” The fight was leaking out from Dean’s voice. “I made a deal with Death to get it back. He said he put up a wall, Sam wouldn’t be able to remember hell. But now he won’t wake up. It’s been- it’s been over a week.” He stepped back, gesturing towards the open door to the panic room. “He’s in there.”

Cas walked in without another word. Sam was lying on the bed, hooked up to an IV, unconscious. Breath shallow. A flush on his cheeks - fever bright. There were marks on his wrists where the restraints would be if he were strapped in. He had to have been pulling at them. Bruises, already on their way out. Yellow-green, and blurred. Cas cleared them with a brush of his fingers over Sam’s forehead. Fixing the easiest problem first. He did not want to see what was inside Sam’s head.

"This will cause you pain, Sam," he said, knowing there was no way the words would be heard. "I'm sorry."

Sam was too far under to scream, but air dragged through his lungs in a long, laboured inhale. Castiel steadied himself, flexed his hand, and reached for Sam's soul.

At least it was there. No sickening lurch of reaching out for something that was missing like there had been the last time. When there had been Dean watching, stony and impassive. When Sam had been awake, watching with apprehension, and lucidity, and not nearly enough fear. This time Sam’s soul was where it should be. But Castiel had held many souls in recent times, and none of them had felt like this. Slick with pain, and fear, and anger. Death had not lied - there was a barrier. Something keeping it at bay. It did not feel permanent.

Castiel pulled his hand from Sam’s soul and watched his muscles fall lax again. Breath shallower then it had been before. Eyes shifting under closed lids. Closer to the surface, then. He brushed his fingers against Sam’s temple again. The pain had roused him, maybe, but he was already sinking back down. He could try and pull him back to the surface, see if he could wake him. It didn’t seem like rousing him by force would have good consequences. Sam’s consciousness descended further, and he pulled his hand away.

Castiel wanted to gather him to his chest and hold him there. Wanted to curl around him and not let anything else through. Wanted to go back to before they’d realised anything was wrong, to when Sam’s smile was broad, and easy, and Castiel didn’t know it was fake.

He wanted to go back to before he knew what nearly two centuries with Lucifer had done to Sam’s soul.

It wouldn’t be fair to any of them, so instead he left the panic room to tell Dean his brother might never wake up.

Until he did.

“Castiel, uh,” Sam’s voice, lifted in prayer. Tentative, enough to freeze Castiel in his tracks. “I’m back. So, if you got a minute…”

He trailed off and Castiel flew away from his war as fast as his wings could take him. A motel room, familiar, Sam sat at the table with his laptop. He’d seen this scene so many times but here, the set of Sam’s shoulders. He was looking behind him but he turned, eyes catching on Castiel, surprise crossing his face. He stood, slowly. How had he never noticed something was missing?

“Sam,” he said. “It’s good to see you alive.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “You too.” There was a softness to his gaze that caught in Castle’s throat, he was moving towards Sam like he was being drawn like a magnet, full of relief, his whole chest aching with it. Reaching for him and-

Before he could touch him something in Sam’s eyes flickered, and shuttered - his gaze skittered away and he sat down. Stammered. “Look- I would hug you, but-“

“It would be awkward,” Castiel said, dropping his arms. The urge to gather Sam to him was still there. Instead he listened to Sam stammer, moved back to where the table sat between them. Too far to touch.

“Crazy year, huh?” Sam said, “I just talked to Bobby, he- uh. He told me everything that had happened.”

The bottom dropped out of Castiel’s stomach before he realised that, most likely, Bobby had no idea that he and Sam had been spending so much time together. And was that relief or disappointment that coursed through his veins? He never used to be confused about what he felt, what he wanted.

“Franky, I’m surprised you survived,” he said, instead, casting blindly for the thread of the conversation. “I was begging Dean not to do it.”

Sam’s eyes flickered again. “Yeah,” he said, still stumbling over his words a little. “I can understand that.”

“You know,” Castiel said, “It’s a miracle it didn’t kill you.”

For some reason he just didn’t notice. It wasn’t like he was rusty being around humans, especially not rusty being around Sam. But he needed Sam to know he’d been trying to protect him, needed him to know the weight of that. But it meant he missed it. The play of tense surprise on Sam’s face, the questioning tone on every word. He should have realised, but he didn’t. Just let the stories come spilling out.

He didn’t bring up that they’d been in touch, at least.

The omission tasted bitter.

It was not until later, playing and replaying the conversation in his head, revelling in the difference now that Sam's soul was back in place, that he really noticed. The hesitation, the careful questions. A sense of growing horror that Sam had done a masterful job of hiding, until Castiel looked at it in retrospect and then his own grew to match it. He threw himself away.

Threw himself into the fight.

50,000 souls. It had seemed an immeasurable amount at the time. The power that had run through him, the way he'd been able to tear through battle lines like so much paper. For scant moments victory had felt like a forgone conclusion. But, after all this time, he was wearing thin. Raphael was getting closer, Castiel's weapons were getting less effective. The doubt wasn't just in him, he could feel it in his armies as well. As much as he kept trying. They'd never had much faith in his cause, and now they were losing it in their leader.

He needed to fix it. Kept spreading himself thinner.

“Hey, Cas, you got a minute?”

After all the time they had spent inside motel rooms, it was a refreshing change to be outside of one. Sam was sitting cross-legged on the hood of the impala. All the more evident that his soul was back in its place - the Sam Castiel had spent so much time with over the previous year did not corntort himself to appear smaller like this one did. Over-long limbs curled up, elbows and knees sticking out like spines. Head tipped back, the neon red of the vacancy sign burning a red line along his profile.

“Sam.”

His head swung towards Castiel. Face shaded, the glow of the sign backlighting his hair so it looked like he was on fire.

“Hey, Cas. I wanted to apologise. For getting you to talk.” His voice was softer too, now. A change in tone. The Sam of the past year would not have apologised.

“You tricked me,” Castiel said, because it was true and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little put out. Hypocritical of him, maybe, but true.

“I know,” Sam said, an uneasy smile flitting across his face. “I am sorry. I could just tell something was up, and Dean wouldn’t tell me anything.” A sigh, short and frustrated. “I don’t know what he was thinking. That I just wouldn’t notice the way Bobby was looking at me? That we’d never run into someone I spoke to?”

“He is trying to protect you,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, he did say something about that.” Sam glanced down at his hands in his lap.

Castiel looked around. “Where is he now?”

Sam shrugged. "Asleep. I was thinking too much, so I came out here."

"Did he tell you how dangerous chasing your memories could be?" Castiel said. It was thick fear in the back of his throat again, the idea that he could have been the one to poke a hole in the dam. Bring the flood that would wash Sam away.

"He did," Sam said. "But he can't expect me to just ignore all of it. All the things you told me I did." He looked down, shaking his head. Face completely in shadow.

"It wasn't you," Castiel said.

"Sure it was," Sam countered, instantly, confidently. "It wasn't all of me, but it was me. He can forgive me, that's his call, but he can't make me pretend it never happened."

"Sam."

He looked up at that. Smiled, for all that it was an expression more of frustration than good humour. "I am sorry that I tricked you, Cas, but thank you for telling me." He shook himself, minutely, and cleared his throat. "Anyway, I- That wasn't the only reason I called. I know Crowley's dead but we found some stuff about Purgatory."

Castiel stiffened, despite himself. "What?"

"So, the dragon's lair - we found this journal there, and Bobby's been translating it. Turns out it might've been why they were kidnapping virgins, we think they were trying to open it." His voice was matter of fact, even. Like he had no idea.

"The monsters are trying to open Purgatory?"

"Not all the way," Sam said. "At least, we don't think it's all the way. The ritual, it doesn't just open a door, it summons something. They're trying to get something specific out."

"What are they trying to get out?" Castiel said, apprehension growing.

"All we could get was a Mother of All," Sam said. "There was a page ripped out, we're guessing most of what they needed was on there."

"The Mother of All," Castiel frowned. "I'll look into it as well. See if there's anything more I could find." Let Crowley know someone else was trying to knock open the door.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam said. "I appreciate it."

He left. Flew to heaven via a pit stop in Crowley’s office, and arrived to a message he hadn’t thought he’d ever get. Balthazar wanted to meet.

A rooftop in Rome - above a club so loud Castiel could feel the beat pulsing through his shoes. Alone, he waited, watched the lights play on the buildings opposite until Balthazar showed.

“You’re late,” Castiel said.

“Yes,” Balthazar agreed. “Fashionably. What else would you ever expect?”

Castiel turned to face him. Balthazar was angry in a brittle, glittering way. Jaw and eyes hard as he glared. “Why did you want to meet? What’s changed?”

“Surely it’s obvious,” Balthazar said. “Your dogs might not be hunting me down as hard as they could, but Raphael’s certainly are.” He smiled a sharp, humourless smile. “And they’re relentless.”

“And you have an arsenal,” Castiel said. “As well as no interest in this war.’

“Sadly, my lack of interest doesn’t help if the war has an interest in me,” Balthazar moved closer. “I may not want to fight, but it seems like I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Castiel said, “But since you’re doing such a good job championing the cause, it’d be helpful if you’d fight for it.”

The response was a mocking laugh. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“And your weapons?”

Balthazar moved closer, studying Castiel intently. “You’ve changed, Cas. Does Raphael really have you this desperate?”

“Your weapons,” Castiel repeated. “Where are they?”

“Safe, just for now,” Balthazar shook his head. “I’m not a soldier anymore. I refuse to become one again.”

“You said you had to fight.” Castiel turned away, not wanting to see the way Balthazar was searching him.

“I did,” Balthazar said. “But I’m not joining your little brigade. I’m not taking orders from you, Cas. I will help you. I’ll give you the weapons. We’ll kill Raphael, and then I’m gone again.”

“Deal,” Castiel said.

Balthazar drew level with him. “That’s all? We have a deal? No, attempt to convince me?” He scoffed. “No glory to the cause, no doctrine, no creed?”

Castiel was being mocked, he could tell. But he just didn’t have the energy in him to care. “No,” he said, instead. “I’ll take your help. You still have my friendship. I’m not going to waste my time trying to change your mind anymore.” He looked at Balthazar again. “So. Where are the weapons.”

“Spread out,” Balthazar said. “I didn’t want to lose all of them if you or Raphael happened to stumble across one of my caches. We’ll need to consolidate them, and we’ll need to work quickly. The bastard’s right on my tail, you know.”

“Of course,” Castiel said.

“Lucky for you,” Balthazar said, smile turned from bitter to vicious, “I have a plan.”

Castiel did not like the plan - did not enjoy the notion of using Sam and Dean as bait. But it would be effective. Raphael was more than aware that Castiel cared for them. They just had to prepare, make sure to mitigate the risk. Balthazar did not want to warn them, and Castiel understood why as much as he disliked it. It was too important. They readied themselves, instead. Castiel had spent so much of the last year telling lie after lie after-

"Cas."

Dean's prayer broke through the haze of exhaustion and grief. He didn't sound much better - there was a crack in his voice, a thread of panic. At least it made it sound like there was a real reason for him to be asking for help. Not just the inability to realise that he had other commitments, that maybe a war in heaven had its price and its needs on Castiel's time. Not just to rage against an immovable force.

"I need your help. It's- uh. It's Sam."

He flew to earth in an instant, landing next to where Sam was lying on the floor of an abandoned building. Dean crouched next to him.

"What happened?"

"The wall in Sam's head," Dean said, voice bleak, too focused on Sam to flinch. "I think it cracked. He- he started seizing and now he won’t wake up.”

Cas crouched on Sam’s other side. “Give me some room.” He did not pay attention to how far away Dean moved. “How long did the seizure last?”

“A couple minutes,” Dean said. “Not- not long.”

Sam was still unconscious, not asleep. Working his way up through a deep ocean to get there, though. Which could count as a good sign. Castiel brushed fingers to his forehead, the still unfamiliar taste of fear thick in his throat.

The wall was not cracked, not yet. But scratched wasn't the right word either - clawed maybe sufficed. Gouged. Damaged - badly enough that the fear wouldn't abate. He returned to himself, addressed Dean where he stood against the motel room wall.

“It’s not broken.”

Dean sagged in relief, rubbing a hand over his face. “So, he’s okay?”

“That’s not what I said,” Castiel said. “The wall isn’t broken, but it is wearing out. I don’t know what got through, and it’s still likely to break in the future.” He met Dean’s eyes, pinning him in place. “Like everyone warned you.”

Dean stared back at him. Clearly terrified. Sick with worry, but not backing down. "Can you fix it?"

Castiel looked back at Sam, letting silence hold for a long moment. "I can try. I'm not Death, but I may be able to shore up some of the damage. You need to understand; it's not a solution. It's not indefinite. This is not something anyone can fix, Dean."

The weight of Dean's eye contact left him. "I get it. Do what you can."

The command should have felt presumptuous, but it wasn't like Castiel would refuse. Not with Sam crumpled on the floor beside him. "I need space. And time. I will call for you when I'm done."

There was an argument right on the tip of Dean's tongue - the tension in the room ratcheted up, sharply. Castiel turned to meet his eyes, and watched him visibly fight himself back. When he spoke, it was only to say, "Fine," and then he stalked out of the motel room. Probably only going as far as the impala out on the road, but as long as he was out of the room Castiel didn't mind. He set himself to work trying to shore up the wall.

After, Sam surfaced, briefly. Not fully lucid, but playing pretend.

"Cas?" he mumbled, trying to blink but unable to fully open his eyes.

"You should sleep," Castiel told him, reaching to brush his fingers against Sam's temple. He did not push the words into a command, not yet.

Sam let out a hum, and turned his head into Castiel's palm. Cheekbone bumping into the side of his hand, fingertips sliding from his temple along the grain of his hair. His eyes slid closed again, lashes flickering against Castiel's skin. "Did you tell me everything?" His voice was half-whispered, hoarse, and groggy.

"Everything?" Castiel asked, keeping his voice as soft as Sam's.

"What I did," Sam said. "Let Dean get turned. Tried to kill Bobby." His eyes opened a crack, just enough to look at Castiel. "What'd I do to you?"

Castiel shifted his hand back to Sam's temple, felt his pulse thrum in the skin there. It would have been easy to push him back into slumber; he was right on the edge. But Castiel didn’t. "Nothing."

Sam sighed, eyes slipping closing again. "Liar." Mostly asleep without any help, he brushed his lips gently against Castiel's wrist.

Castiel did not push him under, but he left his hand resting against Sam's face until he was sure he was dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com/).


	7. Seven Turns Round Jericho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel circles the conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A countdown.

I

Castiel’s fingertips remembered the thrum of the pulse in Sam’s temple. They remembered the gouges in the wall of his head, the slick, raw, ragged edges of his soul. Something unfixable, something he desperately wanted to fix. If only he had more power, if only he wasn’t stretched so thin, if only, if only, if only. It felt like he’d been spiralling more. The urge to flee to earth was strong, when he was in heaven, but where would he go? It wasn’t like he could tell Sam why he wanted to sit in a motel room with him. Why he wanted to take Sam’s hand and place it on his chest above his heart. He couldn’t explain what he was missing. And, when he did go to earth, it was for meetings not nearly so comforting.

A scream echoed down the corridor.

“Someday, darling, you’ll learn to pay attention when I’m talking,” Crowley said, venom dripping from every syllable.

“I’ll pay attention when you have something worth saying,” Castiel replied. “I don’t need to hear about how many creatures you have under the knife, I need to hear how we open purgatory.”

“Feisty little kitten,” Castiel said. “What, are you upset all your plans aren’t working out? War can be a little different when you’re calling the shots, can’t it?” There was an expression that on any other face would look fond. Regarding Castiel like he was a nephew, favoured despite - or because - of sheer, well meaning stupidity. “All that work to get those weapons, you use your favourite toys as bait, and for what? How long did that have Raphael running, a day?”

“You know what will turn the tide,” Castiel said.

“And you know I’m working on it.” Crowley’s voice had cooled. “And I’m getting close, very close. But your pets are getting very close too.”

“They’re still off-limits,” Castiel ground out.

“So you’ve said.” Crowley leaned further over his desk steepled his fingers. “Remember what you said to me? If I wanted to make threats, I should make threats?”

“Are you?”

Crowley’s smile cut like glass. “Yes, I believe I am. I’m done playing nice. I’ve warned you, time and time again, to keep your dogs off my trail. You failed, I had to fake my own death.” The smile grew wider, and sharper, and more dangerous. “I’m not asking anymore. You’re going to come through for me on this, the one thing I have asked you to do. Because you know I’m not joking around with you when I saw next time the brothers Winchester cross my path, I’m taking their heads off.”

“You won’t touch them,” Castiel said, grace gathering at his fingertips instinctually. “I won’t let you.”

“You’re running on empty, Castiel,” Crowley said, making the name sound like a curse. “You won’t be able to. If you want to stop me, do as I ask, and keep them the hell away from me.

II

“Are you sure you don’t want to stick around longer?” Sam asked, a hand hovering close to Castiel’s shoulder but not crossing the distance to touch him. No matter how much he wanted it to. “You really don’t look so hot.” There was some humour in his tone, but the kind that was clearly just thinly covering worry. It warmed Castiel a little. More than he’d admit to.

“No, I do need to go,” Castiel said. “I appreciate the concern.” 

“Yeah, Cas, you got stabbed,” Sam said. Watching him, gaze careful. Hands still hovering but not touching; worse than if he wasn’t trying to touch at all.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said, and did not give him any more time to protest.

Perhaps it was foolish to retread his steps. Bobby Singer's house was as warded as he could make it. Probably as safe as any place could be. But it did not feel right to stay, not after what he’d done. The angels who had followed him - he could not imagine they still did. Finally, he had crossed a line they had probably been waiting for him to step over. They had not trusted him for so long, not really, surely they had been expecting this. Maybe this would be how they found him, crouched over Rachel’s body. His own blood now dried and crusted on her blade. Hers pooled beneath her.

Was it still shocking, now? After more than a year of civil war, after the apocalypse, was the death of an angel still what it had been? Unthinkable, impossible, somehow unavoidable?

The shadow of her wings covered the warehouse floor, and the caustic scent of ruined grace lingered in the air.

Like after a lightning strike.

Ruined ground and cracked air.

No one stumbled across him. None of his soldiers, coming to finish what Rachel had started. No more blood on silver blades, at least not yet. He stayed, sat beside the body. There had been no thirst for war in him, no urge to lead until she had asked him to. She had been a sister, she had fought beside him, fought for him so many times. Now she was dead and he was the one who had killed her. Even if he would still be accepted, how could he go back to heaven and lead his forces now?

The only option was killing Raphael. Winning for once and for all, ending the fighting.

He would return the victor or he would return to his death.

III

A stupid mistake.

They knew he had been watching them. That Crowley was alive. That he’d been hiding it. They had trusted him, and that trust was lying in ruins. Scattered in a circle and set aflame. The crackle of oil was loud in the silence of so many failed expectations. Bobby, solid and resolute. Dean, brittle and betrayed. Sam... Sam.

“Did you bring me back soulless... on purpose?”

The words were viscerally horrifying. Castiel’s skin crawled.

“Of course not, Sam, how could you think that?”

But he knew how Sam could think it. The number of Castiel’s lies that had come to light, and it wasn’t even all of them. It was already enough, a searing light of truth razing the ground between them. Castiel could still remember how Sam had felt in his arms when he’d pulled him from the pit, how sure he’d been, pride curled in every molecule of this being. So wrapped up in his own power he hadn’t even noticed the ripping away of Sam’s soul. He’d revisited the memory so often, trying to pinpoint the moment. What he had missed. He would probably never know.

And now Sam suspected he did it on purpose.

He should have known better then thinking it would be an effective defence, considering how badly it had gone. Now the heat between them was holy fire.

A chorus of demons from the North - he could hear them before the black smoke boiled into view. Knew what it meant, knew he needed to get the Winchesters away as quickly as possible. Enough time to be relieved that they didn’t fight him on it, that they left, even if Dean’s desperation was clear on his face.

Fix it.

There was nothing to fix. He’d lingered at their side too long, came when they called too often, but he was too far down the path to turn back now. Oily demon-smoke descended upon him, bringing Crowley with it. The fire was doused, he could see the satisfaction on Crowley’s face. That he owed him again.

What exactly was he willing to do?

Whatever it took.

IV

Heaven was deserted.

Did they run from him now? How far he had fallen. It was not that he’d expected to find a warm welcome. The desolation hurt, somehow, more than a battle would have. If they had attacked him like Rachel had. Instead of leaving him to beg for answers from an absent God.

He should have known better.

The eternal Tuesday afternoon.

A Sunday night full of fireworks.

The early hours of a Friday morning in a dorm room.

Heaven after heaven and he found no one. An endless maze of human souls resting, and he walked through it pretending he had no blood on his hands.

When they did come, it was worse. This was fear, not faith. This was a wide circle of angels, asking for orders, asking for guidance. Ready to follow because they thought if they did not they would die. It would not last. The fear would break them, like plastic toys snapping apart, one by one they would turn. Would they run or fight? How many of his soldiers would he be required to kill. How many, if he could not end this quickly. If he could not take control.

Balthazar was there, expression unreadable. And Castiel would have liked to speak with him, out of all the angels there he was the one that may have been able to understand.

But as soon as he dismissed them Balthazar was gone.

V

"Castiel, it's Sam. Um, so look, I don't know if you're in on this whole Ben-Lisa thing, but if you have any heart whatsoever, bring 'em back to us, man. C'mon. Please. I'm begging you. I am begging you, do you understand?"

The prayer dragged through his chest like a claw.

Not just the fact that Sam was begging. Begging for help, in a voice that was resigned, and exhausted. It was the doubt. That Sam was honestly not sure if Castiel was involved. That he could think that he’d let Crowley kidnap Lisa and Ben. It seemed disingenuous he could think that and yet still have faith enough to pray, faith enough to let his request pull at Castiel’s sleeve, faith enough to ask for help.

Not enough faith for Castiel to go to him.

He did not want to see that war in Sam’s eyes, tenuous trust and insidious doubt. He did not want to see which would win out. He’d had too much experience with losing in recent times. Not with arguing with Crowley, not with the suspicion and fear in Balthazar’s eyes, not with Dean’s anger. 

In the hospital it was worse.

He should have had more control, should have been able to prevent Crowley from taking innocent hostages. After all, Sam and Dean could do a passable job of taking care of themselves. He had thought, briefly, optimistically, he would be able to heal Lisa without a confrontation. But he was not going to sneak in, not let Dean see him. It was not just for Dean that he wanted to heal her, he would have healed her regardless, a victim of the deal between him and Crowley who should never have been involved. But it was a reminder for Dean too. They were friends. They were family. Just because they disagreed on something, it couldn’t change that.

It was fuelled as much by pride as it was altruism. He would not lie about that. After everything he had done for the Winchesters, everything he had given up for them, they did not trust him. They thought he was seeking power for the sake of it, that he was going off the deep end. As much as anything else, this was to remind Dean of who he was. That he wasn’t Crowley, or Michael, or Lucifer. When he found that power, he would know what to do with it.

So he laid his hand on Lisa’s forehead.

“I wish this changed anything.”

“I know. So do I.”

And then.

Wipe them, Dean said. Like they’d never met him, either of them. Castiel could make arguments about how much protection it would offer, if they knew nothing at all about what hid in the shadows. But he understood the urge. That Dean was protecting them from himself, not from the monsters in the shadows. And he could see in Dean’s eyes, this was a chance. Saving Lisa from her wounds, that was nothing, that did not even make them even in the eyes of Dean Winchester. Doing this for him, this could. Maybe. It was a step, at least.

Neither Lisa nor Ben saw him coming.

He watched Dean, after. The pain on his face as he spun a story about a car accident - lying to take one last look at them. The people he had hoped would be family. Before he left the hospital, met Sam by the car.

Castiel was watching them drive off when Crowley called him back.

VI

He listened to Eleanor Visyak tell Bobby she could protect himself. She probably wasn’t wrong - whatever she was, she was powerful. Old, and practiced, and very well hidden. She’d survived in Purgatory, she’d survived being pulled through. She had not only hidden herself, but thrived, in the years since the rift had opened and she had entered into the world. There was warding all over her home, there were weapons against almost any enemy you could think of, she had clearly spent time, effort, and blood on keeping herself safe.

Castiel was an angel of the lord.

She could not keep herself safe from him.

Crowley was pleased when Castiel brought her in, or at least as pleased as he ever was.

“This is it, kitten,” he said, buckling Eleanor into place on the table. “This is our big break. So, I know you want to fly away and ignore this part like you always do,” he paused in his work to fix Castiel with a glare, “But not this time. You’re getting your hands dirty with me.”

He did not, at first. Crowley was still a fan of traditional methods first. Blades, and burning, the stink of blood filling the air. But, though Eleanor screamed, she did not seem near breaking, and when Crowley turned to Castiel in a moment of peace, he intervened.

“We’re running out of time,” he said. “Let me.”

Crowley smiled. Castiel had grown to hate the expression. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to take the lead.”

Had Castiel damned himself with those words? He had never tortured someone directly before. Only facilitated it. The monsters, obviously. Corridors of cells, and demons, screams and the stink of the blood, and endless, endless questions. A miasma of terror and pain that he had done his best to avoid, even as he knew he could not ignore it. But his mind flickered, without permission, to Dean. To Alistair strapped down to iron, to carefully laid out supplies. To standing outside listening to hope drain out of Dean’s voice, listening to him turn back into the version of him that, when Castiel had reached out to lift him from the pits of hell, for a moment had fought.

It had been pointless.

Alistair had not been close to breaking, not after hours and then they had been betrayed and he had broken free. Castiel remembered well the hand like iron around his throat, the burning, agonising tug of an exorcism cutting him out of his vessel. And then, Sam, the taste of blood still in his mouth had stepped in. Pulled Alistair off him like it was nothing. Had him screaming in seconds, louder than Dean had, and the truth - that it was not demons killing angels - had fallen from his lips just as fast.

The arrogant, vicious twist to Sam’s lips as he’d said, “Now I can kill.”

He’d stared at Castiel after. A challenge clear in every line of his body. I am the boy with the demon blood, it had said. After all your warnings, your requests for me to stop, after all you have told me, I am still what I am. And I have saved you. And I have completed the task you laid out. And I did not need your help to do it.

Why don’t you try and damn me for this, the expression had read.

The Winchester's would damn him for this, he knew.

Castiel tried to ignore that, as he stepped up to the table. Raised his hand to her temple first, healing her wounds with a rush of Grace. Crowley scoffed behind him, but Castiel did not consider it a particularly merciful gesture.

If she wasn’t in good health, she could die from shock, after all.

VII

There was still blood on his hands.

He crouched on a roof and watched the slow, painful movement of Eleanor’s chest. Still alive, though fading. If she was helped soon, she could make it. Maybe. She had lost a lot of blood, and was still losing it. It left a tang in the air; salt, and rust, and an edge of something unfamiliar. Something from Purgatory he wondered. Maybe it would become familiar soon. Because it would be soon, he could already feel the eclipse growing. Veils between worlds thinning. It made flying easier, like soaring on rising thermal air. Effortless. Easy as breathing.

The Winchesters and Bobby were on their way. They had to be: he’d seen her call them. Been able to her the urgency in Bobby’s voice on the order end of the phone.

He wanted them to arrive in time to save her, but it was growing less likely by the second.

The thick June air stirred lightly in the breeze. Humid, and hot. Castiel drifted on it. He was sure now, at least. Sure of his path, even if it led further into the dark than he had wanted it to. So many things he had done, so many he still had left to do. And he knew, by now, there was no point in trying to convince them that his intentions were true. That they would continue to be true after he'd completed the tasks set out in front of them. But he would prove it to them. No splitting this with Crowley, no more concessions. He would grab onto power with both hands and he would prove himself.

There was a particularly ragged breath from the figure in the alley.

Finally, he heard familiar voices approach.

Eleanor still had it in her to speak, when they found her, but the life was slipping out of her voice. Unsteady, breathless with pain. And the men standing over her, all feeling responsible in some way. Like they had failed her. Castiel wanted to tell them that they had not, there was no barrier they could have put up to keep her safe. Crowley would have bled her regardless. She would not speak, so Castiel had needed to dig the information out of her head. In contrast, she spilled it to the Winchesters so easily.

This was his least favourite part of the story.

Eleanor slipped away and he dropped to the alley with a step. "I'm sorry this had to happen," he said. It was true, through he could tell none of them believed him. "Crowley got carried away."

"Yeah," Bobby scoffed. "I bet this was all Crowley you son of a bitch." He charged, was restrained. But as much as Castiel wanted to believe this was one final chance, he could already tell it was a foregone conclusion.

"You don't even see it," Dean said, "Do you? How totally off the rails you are?"

A warning, a final warning. Sam was silent, watching Dean and Castiel argue. Silent and steady, and Castiel was already sorry for what he had to do to him. All he needed was time. There was one sure way to get it, to keep them too busy to try to stop him.

Sam was steady, but he was a house of cards; he only needed a slight breeze to knock him over.

Castiel flew, pushing past Dean and Bobby, into place. Fingers to Sam's temple, the feeling of his his pulse fluttering, speeding with fear.

"I promise you I'll fix it," he whispered, soft enough he wasn't even sure Sam would hear it. Reached out Grace into Sam's head, to that dam holding back almost two hundred years of hell.

Castiel pressed his palms to the stone and brought it crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com/).


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leviathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ending.

_Hey, Castiel._

Castiel was burning.

Not Grace, not- not quite. He had thought, at first, it was. When he was standing in the first flood. Months of running and destroying Raphael finally came in an instant. Crowley ran. That was fine. He could not hide. Not with this - the 50,000 souls had been nothing. This, this was true power. This was what he had been striving for, what he had lost so much for, this was how he could make things right.

Sam Winchester plunged a blade through his back, but it did not touch him.

He could not feel it.

_Um... Maybe this is pointless._

Beautiful, defiant ants.

Lingering fondness, even beyond how hard they’d tried to drop him. How could they? They stood no chance. He did not hold pity, but he did hold his own memories. There was much to do, and there were more pressing matters. Raphael’s followers. This world.

He would cleanse it.

An angel become the holy fire.

_Look... I don't know if any part of you even cares, but, um, I still think you're one of us, deep down._

Not holy fire.

Not quite Grace; his own flames but underneath there was something else feeding them. Something rubbery and slick, something legion. Pulsing with many voices in one. A deep, dark, aching hunger. Begging for blood, meat, something more. They pulsed through him. Something oily, and insidious but, no. It was his power. He would control it, he would direct it. There was so much in this world that needed to be fixed and only he could fix it.

He would fix it.

Heart and lungs on fire, but he was fixing it.

_I mean, way, way, way off the reservation, but…_

He was fixing it, he was fixing it, he was fixing it.

No matter if his fingers were numb, if his ribs were cracking, if he could taste blood at the back of his throat. Was it his blood or someone else's? Impossible to tell, stood on office carpet covered in carnage. This couldn't have been him. He wanted to make things better, had to make things better, was making things better. This was just a momentary loss of control, the fire had burnt hotter than anticipated, it had gotten out of hand, but just for a moment.

Just for a single moment.

That legion voice in the back of his head grew stronger. Not just in his head. They were just in him, he watched his skin ripple, vessel buckling, he was going to burst.

He fought it back. Oil and blood under his fingernails.

It was temporary.

He was burning, burning, burning up.

_Look, we still have till dawn to stop this. Let us help. Please._

Sam's prayer felt like a palm pressed between his shoulder blades, like breath on the back of his neck, like pleading.

And he-

The feeling of Sam's pulse against his fingertips had lingered, all the way until he had cracked the door and drank Purgatory dry. Anxious, speeding, slipping away as the wall cracked and Sam just dropped. He had been so sure. So sure it was necessary, so sure he could fix it. Now he wasn't able to even heal himself, skin cracked and cracking further, vision blurring.

Sam's faith was a balm. It was warm. It was warming. It burnt in every wound.

From Bobby's to the door, they'd open it and Castiel would spit every soul back in. He was too far gone to even help with the ritual work. The fire was waning, banked coals, there was something else covering it. Thick, and oily. Sam crouched in front of him, hand on Castiel's shoulder, his knee. Grounding, reassuring, or supposed to be. From the look on Sam's face. Carefully held worry. And pain.

Pain, and fear, and Castiel still had enough of a tenuous hold on himself to see that Sam was fracturing.

He was too far gone to feel the hands on him, but he wasn't too far gone to see that.

The legion inside him chittered, and laughed, _do you think you'll get rid of us this easy? Do you think we will let ourselves be trapped again?_

He stood on trembling legs in front of the door to Purgatory and struggled to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me! A sequel is incoming, and that will have a softer landing than this story does. I appreciate every kudos and comment so much, and thank you for sticking with me. If you want to chat, you can always talk to me on [tumblr](https://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com/).


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